


Never Trust the FBI

by findinghero



Category: NCIS
Genre: Dysfunctional Family, Friendship, Gen, Suspense, Thriller
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2017-12-14 11:03:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/findinghero/pseuds/findinghero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An FBI controlled joint task force is about to take down the biggest mob boss in Chicago, and only Tim knows the agent in charge of the takedown is dirty, but can he protect his team without revealing his past? No spoilers past Vance’s promotion to director, and it ignores all McGee family references from Penelope Papers on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Horoshee Malchek](https://archiveofourown.org/works/835549) by [findinghero](https://archiveofourown.org/users/findinghero/pseuds/findinghero). 



> Posted with thanks to Precious Pup and Tobilo.
> 
> Though it shares a major key element, this story is not in the same universe as my other fic: Horoshee Malchek.
> 
> Disclaimer: Not mine, and no money made here.

Agent Thomas is a charismatic man, this FBI agent presenting the operation to the NCIS portion of the joint task force that plans to finally bring Chicago mob boss Anton Markov to justice. Tim can tell Tony takes to him immediately, just like most of the other NCIS agents that squeezed into their largest conference room today to learn their part in the takedown the FBI hopes to execute in three days.

The only thing is, Tim knows this man, recognizes this FBI agent instantly—even after over 25 years—and Tim’s not about to let his team follow him anywhere.

Tim’s hands are shaking by the time the briefing is over, so he stuffs them in his pants pockets to try to make the movements less noticeable. He glances around the room as people shuffle out the door, but no one pays him special mind. Timothy McGee is just as forgettable now as he was when he was born fifteen years ago.

He follows Tony and Ziva back to the team’s shared cubicle, listening to Tony go on about the Godfather and pondering aloud whether Anton Markov is more of a Tony Soprano sort of mobster or a Michael Corleone kind of guy.

_He’s neither_ , Tim thinks but doesn’t dare to speak the words. _He’s so much worse_.

“So what do you think, Tim?” Tony directs the conversation his way, and Tim can’t help but feel a spark of satisfaction at the simple recognition. Tim had fought so hard for Tony’s acceptance, for his trust as an agent, for his friendship, and this is just a tiny example of how freely Tony offers those things to him now. Tim wonders if he’ll have to give that gift up soon because of this turn of events.

“Never really watched much in the way of mob movies, Tony,” Tim reveals. Some of the films he’s seen actually make Tim feel nostalgic for that intense feeling of family they report and that Tim’s ‘family’ had actually managed to deliver at times, but most of them just make Tim remember the things he’s always been desperate to forget.

“You’re kidding!” Tony whips his head around mid-step. “Mafia movies are _guy_ movies, Tim,” Tony explains patiently—well as patiently as Tony gets—as he lays an arm across Tim’s shoulders. “It’s an artform really,” Tony extols as they round the last corner and walk into the bullpen. “Ooh!” Tony smacks Tim’s chest and then runs ahead, all the while looking behind at Tim. “Marathon once this bust is over! All three Godfathers to start, and then we can check out Goodfellas!” Tony declares.

“Mmm,” Tim crinkles his nose. He loves movie marathons with Tony, but he’s not sure he can sit through an entire day of mafia movies—that is, assuming he’ll even get to stay in his life as Tim McGee long enough to have the chance.

“Oh, come on!” Tony lifts both hands to his sides.

“I’ll get back to you,” Tim cuts short the rant he knows is coming. “I gotta call Sarah,” he pulls his cell from his breast pocket and dials his first speed dial, shuffling on down the hallway towards interrogation despite Tony’s protests as he walks away from the conversation. The area should be fairly deserted at the moment, not that Tim truly needs privacy for this call. The code he and Sarah came up with years ago insures no one will know what they’re talking about anyway.

“Hello?” Tim hears his sister ask once she picks up.

“Hey, Sarah, it’s me.”

“Oh, hey, Tim. Can I call you back later? I’m about to walk into class,” her words are distracted, sure of the response Tim’s about to give.

Tim bites his lip but has to prove her wrong, “Just wanted to confirm we were on for spaghetti at my place tonight.” _We may have to run. Get ready._

“S-spaghetti? T-tonight?” she stutters like she hasn’t since their mother didn’t return from one of her trips back into Chicago to try to get another woman out.

“Yeah,” Tim says as casually as he’s able to after telling his sister their lives may be changing irrevocably and very, very soon.

“Spaghetti doesn’t take very long to make,” Sarah comes back, which is why they’d chosen it as the codeword if they didn’t have a lot of lead time before they had to get out of town. “Are you sure I can’t make you something else?” she asks almost desperately. “There’s this casserole recipe I found online that looks pretty good.”

“I, uh,” Tim sighs into the phone. “I don’t know,” he closes his eyes, his mind zooming through possibilities that might see them out of this, but he’s just not sure yet how great the risk is to the team or whether there’s any way to mitigate the threat without jeopardizing his and Sarah’s life as the McGees. “It’s not like we’ve got the greatest track record,” he clears his throat distractedly then shakes his head. “In the kitchen, that is,” he belatedly adds.

“I guess that’s true,” Sarah returns, her voice shaky but brave, and it makes Tim squinch his eyes shut and lock his jaw to hear her trying so hard to put up a fearless front for him. She hadn’t even been born yet when Mom took Tim and ran, but she’s old enough to remember the close call in Oregon, and Tim knows she still has nightmares about Florida.

“I’m gonna try to figure a few things out on this end,” he promises her, eyes still squeezed tightly while he hopes for both their sakes that there’s a way out of this situation for the two of them that will keep his team safe, and maybe even get Anton Markov behind bars and keep him there for the rest of his life. “Maybe we can try a casserole, but spaghetti’s a safer bet considering our skills in the kitchen,” he continues the code, and with it, his warning to get ready to run. Despite how badly he wants to keep this life for himself and for Sarah, their names are worth nothing anyway if they’re dead—maybe less than nothing if they survive only to go back under their father’s thumb.

“Okay,” Sarah agrees after a moment, and Tim can hear dueling notes of skepticism and hope in her tone. “I’ll see you later, big brother.”

“Later, Sarah,” he tells her, and they both linger a moment on the line before they hang up.

Tim focuses on his breathing as he pulls the phone from his ear. He feels his whole body start shaking this time and decides the best way to hide his jitters is to move his muscles. He shoots into the nearest stairwell and heads up, afraid his thighs are too rubbery to support him if he would try to go down. He makes it to the roof access door in no time. He’s tempted by the idea of fresh air, though, of course, he’d never call attention to himself by opening the fire door to the outside. He makes his way back to his own floor instead, relieved that his legs don’t give out from underneath him as he goes.

Tim carefully maneuvers down the last flight and deliberately strides back towards his workstation. He does his best to ignore the talk as he goes, but the bullpen buzzes with discussions about the takedown, and the only thing that Tim allows his mind to concentrate on as he sits back down at his desk in the MCRT cubicle is that his bosses and his coworkers are crazy—totally and utterly batshit insane. Even if the task force didn’t have one of Anton Markov’s moles in it from the start, all this talk of Markov would surely have alerted him of the impending operation somehow. The man owned ears everywhere. It’s foolish of the other agents to speak so loosely of him, even inside of NCIS headquarters, and who knows how open the talk of him is around the Hoover Building. They’re completely foolish if they think Anton Markov won’t hear.

Of course, that’s a lesson Tim learned early in life—don’t speak aloud anything that must remain secret—so perhaps it’s simply imprinted on him more heavily. Tim’s understanding of this life lesson has always been one of the main reasons Tim likes Gibbs so well. Gibbs’ _Rules_ consider how to keep a secret. It’s so important to Boss that the _Rule_ made it into single digits—Rule #4: _The best way to keep a secret? Keep it to yourself. Second best? Tell one other person—if you must. There is no third best._ Tim has wondered vaguely here and there what made Boss realize the importance of the rule but has no illusions that Gibbs might tell him the truth about it were he to ask. After all, Rule #7 is _Always be specific when you lie._ That’s another thing Gibbs never had to teach Tim but that Tim nonetheless appreciated hearing from Gibbs.

Truth be told, Tim rather likes all of Gibbs’ _Rules_. Maybe because Tim had already chosen half those rules for his own life before he’d even met Gibbs. Maybe because to know Gibbs’ Rules and to follow Gibbs’ Rules is to know where you stand with the man himself. And Tim knows exactly where he stands with Gibbs. He knows, absolutely, that if he asked Gibbs for help—to bring down Agent Thomas or Anton Markov, to hide Sarah, or even to run himself—then Gibbs would do everything in his power to make it happen. As surely as he knows this to be a fact, he also knows that if he were to go to Gibbs for help on this, then Gibbs would die helping him. No one can survive Anton Markov’s wrath. No one, that is, but his son, Anatoli Antonovich Markov. Of course, no one’s seen Toli since his mother ran off with him over 25 years ago, and Tim will do absolutely anything to make sure nobody ever finds him.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s late for a jog, or maybe early—especially without Jethro there to back him up. Even with Sarah staying the night at Tim’s apartment, the German Sheppard wasn’t happy to see Tim leaving the house by himself this morning with his running shoes on, but Tim can’t take the chance that the dog might give him away. In general, animals tend to complicate attempts to go incognito. Tim purses his lips, remembering anew that he’ll have to see about finding Jethro a new home today, but later. For now, Tim’s only task is to drop off a single letter.

He wishes he had time to go through the post office. He could go to some nice, anonymous drop box in the middle of a residential area with few to no security cameras. Instead, his only option is to personally leave the letter off at Fornell’s house.

Tim winces internally at the choice of Fornell. He hesitates not only because of Fornell’s connection to Gibbs and therefore, loosely, to Tim as well, but also because of the man’s daughter. She can’t be more than ten years old, and Tim hates the thought that his actions might be putting her in danger, but there’s only a short list of agents that Tim would trust to bring this information to light in the small window of time that they have. In fact, as far as he’s concerned, Fornell is the _only_ agent in the FBI that can be trusted with this data, and the potential to save lives outweighs the risks—at least for now.

Tim pulls the hoodie down around his face a little more securely. The mask underneath it might be considered overkill to anyone else, same with the leather gloves and the padding underneath his clothes that hide his shape, but Tim won’t take any chances. Not with _Sarah’s_ life. _Except_ … He grips the letter in the sealed plastic baggie a little more tightly—this _is_ Sarah’s life he has in his hand. This is a risk he decided was worth taking to save the lives of the task force, and he really hopes he hasn’t screwed up with his draft of the note because if he has, then at the very least, it will mean Sarah has to start over. At worst… Tim shudders and feels his face pinch up as his mind shies away from that worst case scenario. He’ll think about it later, at home, where it’ll be safe to feel that terrified for a couple minutes.

His eyes bounce every which way as he turns onto Fornell’s street, though his face remains forward. He tries for nonchalant in his body posture, though he knows he’s failing massively. He’s way too tense. He only hopes there’s no one awake yet at 0230 to see.

He keeps his head down the whole way, but runs as confidently as he knows how right up to Fornell’s car. He lifts the wiper on the driver’s side and carefully places the letter—baggie and all—beneath the blade. He’d debated the wisdom of keeping the letter in plastic, but figured exposure to the morning dew would be more likely to corrupt the evidence he’d left in it than keeping the sample in plastic—even in a high heat like this of a DC summer. Tim hopes.

He backs away from the car, tries to look around the neighborhood while keeping his head down. He’s back on the sidewalk in two strides. The entirety of the dropoff likely took less than 3 seconds. It took him two hours to get here. It’ll likely take at least that long to get home with the backtracking and the changing of outfits in the park—again. By the time he gets home, he’ll have to start getting ready for work. While he’s not usually the type to be able to push through a twenty-four hour plus day, Tim knows he won’t have a bit of trouble staying awake in the day ahead.

The more average and normal Tim McGee acts, the more time he and Sarah get to have in this life. No, Tim won’t have any trouble staying awake at all.


	3. Chapter 3

The first two hours of work are as uneventful as expected. Tim feels his fingers itching towards his cell more than once, anxious to check in on Sarah, but not wanting to call attention to himself, or worse, to her. At the moment, Sarah’s doing her best to pull up stakes and brush off the ground behind her. Thank goodness Tim never allowed her to put pictures of herself on the web. What a nightmare that would have been if Tim had to try to alter an inestimable number of pictures with her name on them all over the Internet—for all the good it would have done. Of course, there are likely a few stray ones here and there of Sarah anyway, but Sarah McGee is a common enough name. Without context, without being linked to Tim, a few pictures may not make a difference, not that the probability stopped Tim from googlewashing her name as best he could last night without making it obvious.

The morning’s duties mostly include preparation for the task force and cleanup of the last couple weeks’ paperwork. Michaelson’s team is the only one in the office on active cases, though the Norfolk teams are on call just in case. The whole bit makes for a quiet but busy atmosphere…right up until the moment when Fornell and Sacks step off the elevator.

Tim’s heart jumps into his throat at the sight, frantic with the single thought that he must have made a mistake on the note. They have to be here for him. He nearly stands up—to either greet them or run away, he’s not even sure—but they don’t so much as look at him. Instead, Sacks apprehensively eyes the whole room from the edge of the MCRT cubicle as Fornell whips by them all to go for Gibbs’ desk.

“I need to talk to you,” Tim has to strain his ears to hear Fornell’s low tones. “ _Now_ ,” the agent adds.

Gibbs narrows his eyes at the demand, but his curiosity seems to get the better of him, so he stands and tosses his pencil to his desk. “Okay,” he agrees. “My office.”

“No,” Fornell barely lets him finish the phrase. “Upstairs in MTAC. Your director should have gotten the call by now.”

Tim can’t help but to look towards Vance’s office as Fornell jerks his chin upstairs. Vance seems to step out of his office even as the FBI agent says the words. The Director looks right at MCRT and levels his stare at Gibbs before tilting his head in silent demand and entering MTAC.

Tim looks right back at Gibbs, who squints at Fornell accusingly, but follows the direction and hurries towards the stairs with Fornell directly behind him. Tim keeps an eye on them until they disappear behind the secure door.

“Wow, Slacks,” Tony directs at the remaining FBI agent. “What the hell was that about?”

Tim’s head whips around just in time to see Sacks shaking his pinched features back and forth. “Once your director brings you in on this,” he looks down to DiNozzo almost sympathetically, “you’re not going to want to know.”

“Why is that?” Ziva demands.

Sacks opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but he just shakes his head again, chin dropping as his eyes dart around the room with obvious suspicion. “Just keep your head down, and if you’re close to anybody local, this might be the time to tell them to get out of Dodge.”

Ziva’s face squinches at the apparently unfamiliar phrasing, but then, as she seems to get the gist of the warning, her eyes go to McGee. A moment later, though Tony’s eyes keep with the FBI agent, Tim can feel Tony’s attention on him when he barks at Sacks,

“That’s not funny,” Tony stands and rounds his desk to get close to Sacks. Close but not in his face, not close enough to alert the room to the argument they’re leading into, “I knew the FBI didn’t issue a sense of humor with those knock-off Hugo Boss suits,” Tony deliberately glances down to Sacks’ jacket, “but you’d think a field agent would learn a better sense of taste when it comes to the families of fellow federal agents.” Tony lifts his chin as he moves to stand more fully between Sacks and Tim, preventing Sacks from making eye contact with Tim.

Tim steps to the right to peer beyond Tony’s human barrier routine, needing to see Sacks’ face, trying to somehow read what he knows.

A purposefully fake smile paints across Sacks’ features, “Still always expecting the worst out of the FBI, I see, DiNozzo.”

“Well, when you see the worst,” Tony reaches out to adjust the lapels of Sacks’ suit jacket, “and it keeps coming back no matter how much you try to wipe it off your shoe…” he trails off pointedly.

Sacks drops his head, doesn’t even try to brush off Tony’s grip. “I wish I were messing with you, DiNozzo,” Sacks’ voice is low, almost inaudible to Tim a bare three feet away. “But I’m 2IC on this investigation, and as we speak, my sister-in-law and two nephews are off to parts unknown aboard an FBI plane.”

_Never trust the FBI_ , the familiar phrase comes to the forefront of Tim’s mind, unbidden, carrying his mother’s cadence as it always does as Tim considers the image Sacks presents.

Tony twists around to face Tim abruptly and for a moment, McGee’s afraid he uttered the words aloud, but then Tony orders him to,

“Call Sarah. Now,” he adds the modifier a millisecond later. “We need to bring her in.”

Tim shakes his head, dropping his chin as he considers, _If something’s really wrong, then there’s no time for Sarah to linger with NCIS. She has to run now._

Tony presses into Tim’s space and grabs both of his shoulders. “You don’t mess around with Rule 44, Probie,” he tells him urgently. “I like Slacks about as much as I like that schmuck Penzanti who keeps trying to steal my gym towel from the rec,” Tim just barely spies Sacks roll his eyes behind Tony’s shoulder. “But something is wrong in a _Goodfellas_ sort of way,” his low voice isn’t quite a whisper as he leads. Then Tony winces. “Okay, so you haven’t seen that film, but basically in the movie—”

“I understand, Tony,” Tim shakes his head at his partner, “But we don’t even know what’s going on yet.” Except Tim _does_ know. He caused this, and, _fuck_ , if he screwed up in writing that note or dropping it off this morning, then he put Sarah’s life in danger.

Tim tries to clear his thoughts. On one hand, he thinks, it won’t do him any good to have his considerations muddied by fear, but on the other hand, his fear has kept him and Sarah alive and free for this long. If he just knew why the hell Fornell was even here!

Tim tries his best to think it through in a hurry. It’s obvious Fornell and Sacks are leading the investigation into the note. It’s equally as clear that the evidence Tim inserted was easy enough to verify, and the two agents would hardly be taking events this seriously if they didn’t believe the note. But the real question is, do they know of Tim’s involvement? But then if they do, why would Fornell just walk by Tim a few moments ago with barely a glance? But then again, if the FBI _doesn’t_ know of Tim’s involvement, then why would they be at the Yard instead of FBI Headquarters arresting Agent Thomas and rooting out the other moles?

“Tim, there may not be time for this,” Tony whispers urgently, fearfully, so much so that you’d think it was _his_ sister at risk.

Tim lifts a single finger, solid and sure between them. “No,” he declares, suddenly calm. “We don’t know anything, and until we do, I am not moving Sarah.” He hasn’t fought this long for their lives as the McGees to crap out at the first signs of some amorphous trouble. Besides, Sarah knows the chance exists that she might have to run. She’s had more than enough time—almost a full day—to prepare for the possibility, and she’ll be safer on her own than with NCIS if it comes down to following through with it. All she needs is warning. She’s good at hiding and at getting away, and if Tim can just give her three minutes’ warning, he’s _certain_ she can make it to one of their safety zones intact. That is, as long as his identity remains a secret from the FBI up to that point.

Tony shakes his head, anger just beginning to splash across his features. “You _can’t_ be serious! What if—”

McGee’s desk phone rings behind him, somehow managing to stall Tony’s words with its unimposing ring. McGee turns his upper body to glance at it, would’ve stepped towards it but Tony lays a hand on his forearm.

“Let me go get her,” Tony asks, eyes wide and pleading and sincere.

“No,” Tim lifts his brows as he refuses Tony’s request. He’s not even certain Sarah would go with _anyone_ besides himself at this point. Frankly, she knows better than to trust anyone when they’re so close to bolting, but then she also knows how much Tim believes in his team, too. There’s just no telling what she would do at this point if someone besides Tim were to approach her without verifiable instructions from Tim. Her reaction to such a demand might even be more telling to Fornell’s investigation if the FBI is already inclined to think Tim might be involved in the current situation.

Tony’s face falls, his eyes not quite able to hide his anger and fear and rejection at Tim’s pronouncement before shuttering away any further emotions. Belatedly, Tim realizes how Tony’s processing the refusal, but he doesn’t know how to assure Tony that he trusts him with Sarah—well, as much as he’s ever been able to trust anyone with Sarah—and that it’s the rest of the world he doesn’t trust, and that Sarah knows better than Tony how everyone and everything around you can turn against you in an instant, and there’s no way to protect yourself against unknown enemies unless you understand in a bone deep sort of way that they can be hidden anywhere.

Tony swallows hard and lets Tim’s arm go like it’s burned him, “You better get that, McGee,” he nods towards the phone and backs away from Tim.

Tim licks his lips, not sure how he might fix this sudden and inexplicable rift he’s created between himself and Tony, but suddenly realizing the ringer is going off for the sixth time. He grabs for the receiver.

“McGee,” he answers.

“We have a situation,” the Director’s voice comes across the line, “and I need you on your game, McGee. Do you think you can handle that?”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Tim responds to the sharp tone automatically.

“Good. Tell Sacks to take the evidence down to Abby’s lab, and then I want you up in MTAC now. And next time when I call your phone, I expect you to pick up immediately.”

“Understood, sir. I’ll be right up. Won’t happen again.” McGee tries to finish but the Director’s already hung up.

“They want you in Abby’s lab, Agent Sacks,” Tim says as he lightly sets the receiver back in its cradle, trying to gain a bit more calm.

“I,” Ziva draws out the word almost hesitantly, and Tim can almost hear her glancing between Tim and Tony in concern, “will escort him down.”

Tim hears the two of them head for the stairs to follow the order. He knows he should turn and go up to MTAC himself the second the phone is back on the hook, but instead, he reaches in his desk drawer and pulls out his gun, settling it onto his hip.

“So we don’t know anything except for the fact that you need a weapon to go into MTAC now?” Tony practically spits through his hurt and anger.

Tim squints his eyes shut, still not having turned to look at Tony—at his best friend—yet. Not really knowing how to in this moment. Nonetheless, a moment later, Tim twists around and grabs for Tony’s fist, clenched with anger and hurt right at his gut.

“Never trust the FBI,” he hears himself whispering to Tony this time without even meaning to. Tony’s gaze stays hard, but he grabs Tim’s hand back almost automatically with well-practiced commiseration. “I’m sorry. I—” Tim brings his other hand between them, grasps at the air near his throat like he’s trying to draw the words out. _I trust you,_ he can’t make himself say, or even more importantly and just as true, _I trust you with Sarah._

“You’d better get upstairs,” Tony says more softly this time, and there’s something truly forgiving in his eye even though Tony’s pretty bad about holding a grudge while pretending he’s not.

“Thanks,” Tim whispers and squeezes Tony’s hand, finding some strength in the returning grip.

Then he marches up to MTAC, trying so hard to be aware of his surroundings in that way he’s no good at during times like these when his mind seems to shut his body down. Regardless, he manages to feel Tony’s eyes on him the whole trip. The stare is like a balm to burned skin, though Tim couldn’t say why.


	4. Chapter 4

All the technicians except Harvey Milford—whom Vance had brought with him from San Diego when he took over the directorship—are gone by the time Tim gets up to MTAC. All four of the men remaining have grave looks on their faces.

Tim moves to stand in front of his bosses. Gibbs’ eyes immediately go to Tim’s gun. He’s nodding approvingly by the time Fornell’s gaze follows a half second later. Fornell glances up to Gibbs when he says, “Can tell he’s one of yours, Jethro.”

Boss nearly smiles via microexpression, but then his features flatten out.

“Harvey,” Vance nods towards Milford with familiarity and shared concern. “Let’s show McGee what we’ve got.”

Tim’s early morning note to Fornell flashes across the large screen—just long enough for him to read it if he hadn’t had it memorized already before the picture changes to a DNA analysis that confirms an unknown sample has a male relative in common with a convicted murderer named Petr Markov.

“Anatoli Antonovich Markov?” Tim notes aloud the signature from the previous page.

Fornell nods and moves between Tim and the screen. “Anton Markov’s only son. His mother ran off with him twenty-six years ago, and despite a massive search for them both, the boy was never found.”

Tim startles, “But his mother was?” he blurts the question, completely unintentionally.

“Natalya Markov’s body turned up in ’96 in a trash heap outside of Des Moines, raped and tortured,” Fornell continues to fill him in, “But other than a couple of possible sightings in the Northwest and one probable location in Florida, neither the FBI nor his father’s private investigators have been able to track the kid since 1994.”

Tim breathes as slowly as he can from his nose, trying hard not to throw up or even look like he might throw up at Fornell’s casual description of Natalya Markov’s fate. He tries to focus instead on the FBI and Anton Markov’s lack of knowledge about Toli. They’ll be time to think of her later, time to tell Sarah…something. They’d known she was dead. That’s the only possible reason she wouldn’t have come back for them, and there was never going to be a grave to visit regardless. Still, Tim supposes he’d tricked himself all these years into not considering what might have happened to her when she must have gotten caught going back in for Lenochka.

Tim clears his throat, desperately trying to restore his thoughts to working order. This is the best opportunity he’s ever had to get information, and he owes it to both himself and to Sarah to get as much data as possible. “Is T—Anatoli hiding with anybody?” _Do you know about Sarah?_

“Not to our knowledge, no,” Fornell squints at him. “But it’s a good question. According to the ME’s best estimates, Natalya Markov died sometime in mid-1995. Anatoli would have been 14, maybe 15, at the time. Several other women who were a part of the Markov crime family seem to have disassociated themselves with the syndicate in the years after Anatoli’s disappearance. It’s possible the boy came to live with one of them. However, since he disappeared so completely, we think it’s more likely Anatoli either became a street kid or fled the US, though it’s been debated—until now,” Fornell points deliberately at the screen, “as to whether he was still alive or not.”

“So this DNA analysis,” Tim leads.

Vance immediately complies with the incomplete request, “Confirms that a male relative of Petr Markov—Anton Markov’s younger brother—sent that letter.”

Milford obliging changes the screen back to the letter.

“The sender intentionally left his DNA,” Tim eyes the brown-red blotch on the generic copy paper, and he clenches his fist so not to grab at his covered right forearm, where he’d cut his skin to get that sample on the paper. He’d picked his arm in order to better control the bloodflow, so to minimize contamination with anything that might give away his current identity. “Why?”

“Read the note, McGee!” Fornell waves his whole arm towards the screen in irritation. “We have a mole in the FBI. It’s obvious Anatoli Markov understands the seriousness of this situation with Agent Thomas and that he doesn’t agree with it.”

Tim licks his lips, “So you believe him? You believe this letter was sent by Anatoli Markov as a warning to the FBI? You believe he’s telling the truth about Thomas and the other agents?”

“Markov’s lawyers did everything but tear down the courthouse in an attempt to get the DNA evidence thrown out of Petr Markov’s trial and removed from the system,” Fornell tilts his head and squints at McGee. “People died—our people died—to keep it in there. It’s the only Markov DNA we have.”

“Anton Markov’s people aren’t likely to throw away a blood sample from another Markov for any reason,” Gibbs adds, shifting on his feet as he watches McGee.

Tim shakes his head, still trying to play devil’s advocate in order to get a better feel for what Fornell is thinking. “Maybe they know Agent Thomas is close to shutting down the Markovs’ operation,” Tim very carefully gives the surname an American pronunciation, flattening the ‘o’, making the ‘r’ harder, “and they’re trying to discredit him. Maybe the Markovs even know about the takedown Saturday, and they’re trying to throw us off,” Tim spies Fornell rolling his eyes, but he keeps going, “It’s possible that this is a last ditch effort to get us to cancel the bust.”

“It’s possible the Markovs are trying to discredit Agent Thomas,” Fornell allows, “and that avenue is being investigated,” Fornell shakes his head, “But Markov’s people hardly need to go to extremes to minimize the damage of Saturday’s gameplan. All Markov’s people have to do is move their supplies and erase some files in order to make our takedown look like a Tupperware party, and frankly, with Agent Thomas in their corner, they likely have already done so. No,” Fornell turns back to the screen, gleam in his eye, “this is from somebody who’s been inside the organization. According to the DNA, our writer here shares a first-order male relative with Petr Markov. Petr has two children—both of them girls, and Anton never had any other kids but Toli,” Fornell explains carefully as Tim tries not to shudder in pure relief that Toli is considered an only child. “There are a few other male relatives along the line, and there could be bastard sons we don’t know about, not to mention the blood could have been stolen from one of the Markovs,” Fornell concedes, his gaze never leaving the replica of the bloodstained note on the screen, “but I don’t think so. I think this is Toli Antonvich talking to us right here.”

Tim clenches his jaw, needing desperately to be certain that Fornell really believes what he’s saying. “How do you know?” Tim feels Gibbs eyeing him as he presses Fornell.

Fornell keeps staring at the screen, and in his impatience, Tim is tempted to repeat his query. He keeps his mouth shut, knowing how much better silence serves him when he doesn’t have any other means of defense. Slowly, Fornell turns to face him.

“Those first lines he wrote,” Fornell points to the machine printed sentence behind him. “It’s exactly what his mother said, word for word—I’ve seen Bill Figueroa’s private transcripts of the interview—when the FBI approached her in ’83 and offered her an out away from Markov.”

Tim’s eyes immediately shoot back to the familiar phrases, _Never trust the FBI. They sell their allegiances for money and hide behind the law when they’re caught, leaving you to go to jail or die alone._

He feels a surge of pride mixed with sadness for his mother, that she would have seen through the agents who’d approached her, that she would have taught him the truth despite the risk to herself, despite even, her ultimate fate.

“Why don’t we start getting to the real point here, Agent Fornell,” Vance cuts in. “There’s a reason Fornell is bothering to argue with you about Anatoli Markov, Agent McGee,” Director Vance demands Tim’s attention with his quietly spoken, yet powerful words.

Tim startles, just realizing how much he could have given himself away in the last five minutes by his probing curiosity. Tim drops his head and, as subtly as he can, notes the positioning of everyone else in the room, considers his exits—not that he’d have a chance to get away if Gibbs chose to stop him. Tim furrows his brow and manages to ask, “Why’s that?”

Vance steps closer to Tim, close enough to place his hand on Tim’s shoulder if he were that kind of boss. “Because he needs an agent of your caliber to work the electronic aspects of the new case. Because I won’t order you to help him with this, and because he’s been tasked by his own director to keep the investigation out of the FBI.”

Gibbs, who is that kind of Boss, moves close up on Tim’s side and angles Tim’s body towards him with a hand at his neck. “What Fornell hasn’t told you is that Anton Markov has never stopped looking for his son. His people tore apart a school in Florida trying to find him in ’94, which is right before Anatoli really went underground.” Boss lifts Tim’s chin with two fingers, making Tim realize he’d dropped his head in consideration. “If we find Anatoli Markov, we are going to be his father’s number one targets.”

Tim feels his face pinch, “Why do we need to find Anatoli Markov? I thought you believed the note. I thought you just needed me to confirm the facts within it,” though he realizes his words are for Fornell, Tim can’t look away from Boss.

“We have a team, appointed by the Director of the FBI himself, investigating Agent Thomas and his allies through the years,” Fornell answers off to Tim’s right. Tim doesn’t bother to glance in his direction, “but right now, the only person who knows where the bodies are buried—perhaps even literally—and who can bring down Thomas and maybe even the entire Markov family, is Anatoli Markov.”

Tim squeezes his eyes shut and immediately feels a corresponding squeeze on the back of his neck. _This is just research at this point_ , he tells himself. _It doesn’t have to put Sarah at risk, and the FBI doesn’t have to “find” anything that I don’t want them to find_. In the meantime, Tim can get more information on Anton Markov than he’s ever had access to before, as well as controlling the data the FBI has about Toli. In the end, despite the risk, there’s only one choice Tim can make for himself and Sarah.

Tim opens his eyes and turns his head to Fornell, “I’m in.”

A victorious grin spans Fornell’s face, but the speculating eyes above it make it look sinister. Fornell shoots a nod of respect Tim’s way. “You’ll have all access to the data we’ve got on Toli Antonovich as well as his father’s attempts to recover him.”

Tim barely manages to suppress a wince at Fornell’s gleeful words and his callous phrasing, but a niggling thought has him wondering whether Fornell would still be so thoughtless of Toli if he realized he knew Toli as a person and not just a means of capturing an infamous mobster.

“You don’t have to do this,” Boss promises.

Tim opens his eyes and looks right at Boss. _Yes, I do_ , he can’t say the words aloud because then he’d have to explain that truth somehow. “Someone has to,” he declares instead because it’s just as accurate. But Toli—or rather Tim—wants to be that person who stands up to his father. Considering the fact that, although his father has no compunction about killing multitudes of people, he wants Toli alive, Tim thinks that maybe he’s got a shot at actually putting Anton Markov behind bars where anyone else would either be killed or forced to back off.

Tim turns his body more fully towards Fornell, though he doesn’t move away from Gibbs and the strength and protection he probably never should have allowed himself to feel from the man. “So what exactly do you need me to do, Agent Fornell?” Tim squints as he asks.

“To start with,” Fornell smiles with satisfaction at Tim’s agreement, “we need you to go through security footage from the time the note was dropped off at my house as far back and forward as can be traced.”

Tim feels himself still inside. “You have video of the individual depositing the note?” he can barely speak to ask.

Fornell’s eyes practically beam. “I had to get video surveillance installed two years ago due to vandals.”

“Diane?” Gibbs inquires, hearing something in the FBI agent’s tone that Tim can’t, and Tim doesn’t need to turn to know there’s a smirk on his Boss’ lips.

Fornell rolls his eyes, “Who else would pull out tulips by the root and set them on fire on the lawn?”

Gibbs tilts his head and snicks his lips over his teeth. “She hated tulips.”

“Always made her sneeze,” Fornell confirms, grinning back.

Gibbs chuffs, but then Fornell brings the conversation back to point, “If we can trace where Toli Antonovich came from or where he went, we can figure out how to bring him in.”

“And if he doesn’t want to come in?” Tim questions because he needs to know where he stands with Fornell, needs to know what his boundaries are—where his outs lie—before he gets any deeper. “I mean has he actually done anything illegal?” Tim rephrases, “Do we have any reason to compel Anatoli Markov to come out of hiding?”

“Who says we won’t have a reason by then, kid?” Fornell lifts both brows. “How do you think a mobster’s son gets inside information on the planned federal takedown of his father?”

Tim’s stomach drops at Fornell’s loose consideration for Toli’s life, “So you think Anatoli’s dirty?”

Tim just catches Gibbs twisting his chin to the right as Boss declares, “Either that or he’s one of us.”

“A fed?” Fornell shakes his head with a smirk. “I’d like to take odds on that to Atlantic City.”

“Yeah,” Vance acknowledges the unlikelihood with a hum along his toothpick, “but it kind of makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

“What’s that?” Tim obligingly asks the director, stomach roiling at Fornell’s insinuation that Toli’s just like his father.

Vance looks to the FBI agent, "If Anatoli Markov is dirty, then why would he choose you as his contact, Agent Fornell?" Fornell glares at the director. "I meant that as a compliment, Agent," Vance clarifies. "To both you and Anatoli Markov," Vance looks Fornell over consideringly. "You're the only federal agent I know of that can match Gibbs in the pure stubborn pursuit of justice."

“Match?” Gibbs jerks back his chin in insult, and the director actually smiles.

“My apologies, Gibbs.” Vance lowers his head and raises his brows, “Of course, I meant approach.”

“Approach?” Gibbs teases again, seeming to offer Tim a bit of breathing room from Fornell’s intensity for the half second before the FBI agent cuts in:

“I don’t know why he chose me, Director, but I’m not going to betray that trust.”

“You mean, not until you have him in your custody?” Vance pointedly asks.

Again, Fornell glares at Vance, then redirects his attention back to Tim. “I suggest you seek protection for your family, but I’m afraid I can’t recommend anyone in the FBI at this time, and frankly, I would also be wary of the Marshals considering the number of Markov witnesses that have turned up dead before trial.”

“Don’t worry, Tobias,” Boss speaks for Tim, “We’ve got that covered.” Gibbs directs his next words to Tim, “Tony and Ziva will have duty with Sarah.”

“Anyone else we need to worry about, Agent McGee?” Vance asks, somehow allowing the intrusive words to be delicately spoken, softening their potential blow. “I noticed your parents weren’t listed on your file,” he adds.

Tim blinks downward, feels his jaw tighten as he thinks about the news of his mother. “Been gone a while,” is all he says before trying to change the subject, “Are Tony and Ziva going to be read in?”

Vance nods, accepting the abrupt break in thought without comment, “Enough to know that we’re pursuing a lead on Anton Markov’s son, but not that Anatoli Antonovich has been in contact with the FBI.”

“Fornell, not the FBI,” Gibbs points out.

Vance lifts his brows in Boss’ direction but then he merely nods, seeming to cede Gibbs’ point.

“What about Abby?” Tim pushes a little more. “Sacks was taking some evidence down to her?”

“She’s independently verifying the match between the two DNA samples, but she’s not going to be given any names to go with them,” Vance answers patiently, permitting Tim’s insistent questions. “I intend to leave her as much out of the loop as evidence allows.”

“Okay,” Tim nods, resolved. “I guess I should get started.”

Just before he walks away, Fornell reaches into his pocket and pulls out a large portable drive. “Guard it with your life,” he orders Tim as he hands it over. “Sacks and I have to get back over to the Hoover building before we draw suspicion to ourselves,” Fornell directs his words to Vance and Gibbs. “Let me know if he finds anything.”

Tim’s focus narrows to the drive in his hand, just barely taking notice as Fornell leaves MTAC and as Harvey Milford nervously stands from the seat he’s occupied in MTAC for the last several years in order to ask for dismissal on the case. Tim walks over to take his own usual seat at the control consol, spying from the corner of his eye as Vance walks Milford out. He plugs in the USB of the hard drive in his hand and immediately brings up the directory of files it holds. His breath catches as he sees the breakdown of file folders—this is his whole life as the FBI knows it. What if they know him better than Tim thinks they do?

Boss takes Harvey’s empty seat beside Tim, makes Tim pause before he might even begin searching the drive by placing a gentle hand on the cusp of his shoulder.

“Never trust the FBI,” Boss quotes as he drops his hand to his side. “There’s a reason Toli Antonovich started off his note to Fornell that way.”

Tim looks Boss’ way, wondering what he knows or has intuited at this point.

Boss levels his gaze at Tim a moment, studying the younger man before he says. “I don’t like this.” Boss shakes his head. “This whole situation is wrong.”

Tim feels his brow furrow, and Boss explains further without him having to ask. “Even if this really is Toli Antonovich, there must have been dozens of incidents before where agents or innocent lives were at risk, but he didn’t act against his father until now.”

“Maybe he didn’t know,” Tim offers, partly to assuage Boss’ sudden doubts of Tim’s alter ego, partly because it’s the truth. At least, it’s mostly the truth.

“No,” Gibbs shakes his head. “No, I’d say Toli Antonovich has more to lose this time.”

Tim blinks, gaze shooting downward. “So maybe that’s good for us,” Tim tries to get Gibbs back on Toli’s side. “Maybe he’ll work with law enforcement to get his father behind bars permanently.”

Boss shakes his head once more, “It’s never good to have to deal with a desperate man.” Boss lifts his hand to squeeze Tim’s shoulder again, making Tim feel both grateful and confused by the extended affection. “No one’s fully read into this except for me and Vance and Fornell. You’re not to talk about it over the phone or outside MTAC, understood?”

Tim nods and bites his lip, suddenly doubting the decisions that brought him here but unsure as to how he could have made a better choice.

“You can change your mind at any time, Tim.” Gibbs reads his mind not for the first time. “I won’t think less of you.”

And Tim can see the honesty in Boss’ words and the open acceptance in Boss’ gaze for whatever Tim decides to do. Mom had told him after Florida, _When you’re backed into a corner, you find a way to stand, or find a way to run._ Tim’s always taken Sarah and run before. She was always too young to risk, but now she can run on her own if need be. Now she’s old enough to make her own decisions if the fight finally finds her. If their father even figures out who she is and that mom was pregnant when they left him, Sarah can always claim her parentage to save her life, which is more than Tim’s team can claim.

“I’m not going to change my mind,” he tells Gibbs with certainty.

Boss nods like he was expecting Tim to say that. “Okay. I’ll have Tony and Ziva go get Sarah.”

Tim gets out his cell, even though they’re not supposed to make personal calls in MTAC. “She’s at my place. I’ll let her know to expect you.”

Gibbs squints at Tim’s words, and for a second, Tim wonders if he gave something away, but instead Boss says, “Your parents were both alive and listed on your file when I recruited you to MCRT. Are they dead, Tim?” Gibbs pushes, his fingers stiff with regret at his own words where they twitch on Tim’s shoulder. “Did they die while you were on my team?”

Tim stiffens and jerks his head away, unable to meet Gibbs’ eyes any longer. He’d known that lie in the paperwork was going to come back and haunt him. It had just been so convenient at the time, with Sarah still a minor, to list a terminally comatose Navy man and his MIA wife as his and Sarah’s parents, especially since Tim had had the permission of Marigold McGee—his ostensible grandmother—to do so. All Mrs. McGee had asked in return for the favor was that Tim take care of her son and see to his comfort after she died. And so Tim took care of Commander McGee, oversaw his movement to a facility with a higher standard of treatment than the VA hospice once the book royalties started coming in, and he took Sarah to visit Sean McGee twice a month until the commander died three years ago.

“Boss,” Tim shakes his head, not wanting to answer, neither wanting to lie, nor to make Gibbs feel badly for a perceived slight.

Gibbs squeezes Tim’s shoulder a little more, not accepting his doomed attempt at prevarication. Tim’s eyes pinch shut at the insistence for a moment. When he opens them again, he knows that he can’t have yet another lie between him and Gibbs.

“Our parents,” Tim looks right at Boss, “Mine and Sarah’s,” he clarifies as if Gibbs asked for it, “they’ve been dead to us for a long time, and we came to terms with that a very long while before I became a part of MCRT.”

“You never said,” Gibbs shakes his head, not so much accusing as not quite comprehending, “You always implied you had a happy childhood, a happy home to go to on holidays,” Boss looks him over carefully, like he’s trying to see what he missed before.

“I know what I implied,” Tim confesses, eyes still on Gibbs, wanting Boss to know there’s no blame for him here. “Happy and normal are boring. People don’t bother to look more closely at boring.” Tim’s breath catches, and he brings a hand to his mouth, not quite believing he just accidentally revealed one the most lasting tenants of his life, of running.

Boss nods, eagle eyes on Tim’s reaction to his own words. “I wish I would have known.”

“Boss,” Tim shakes his head, but Gibbs interrupts before he can say anymore.

“If I’d known I would have made it more clear where you stand with the team. With me.”

Tim pinches at his mouth with nervous fingers. “Do you think I didn’t know?” he whispers.

Gibbs chuffs softly, chagrined, and stands. “Should’ve known better, I guess.” Boss squeezes Tim’s shoulder one last time, and then softly rubs the back of Tim’s head before he steps away. “Be by to check your progress later. Don’t leave the building without me,” he warns, waiting for Tim’s accepting nod before making his way out of MTAC.

Alone again, Tim pulls up his phone once more and hits the most important number on his speed dial—she’s always number 7 on every one of Tim’s phones.

“Marco!” Sarah answers in a childish sort of sing-song, but Tim can hear the nervousness she’s trying to hide beneath her tone.

“Barrera,” Tim responds immediately because Marco Barrera’s a boxer, and Tim and Sarah are going to stay and fight.

He hears Sarah take a ragged breath on the other end of the line. “Here I was thinking Marco Andretti,” Sarah refers to the racecar driver.

“Not today,” Tim promises. “My partners will be at the apartment to get you soon.”

He can practically feel Sarah pause with doubt at his words, especially since they’d switched their phone protocol to no-names last night. “Oh?” she queries, and though the sound is mild, should seem almost unquestioning, Tim can hear a thousand layers of doubt beneath it.

“Yes,” Tim confirms. “I need you to pack my bag.” Actually, he already has everything he’d rather not leave behind gathered and ready in his go-bag beside his desk downstairs, and she knows it. What he really needs is for her to finish sanitizing his apartment of all personal traces of them just like they had with Sarah’s apartment the evening before.

“Got it covered,” Sarah responds right away, her tone no-nonsense, meaning she’d probably already finished with the task shortly after he’d left that morning.

“Thank you,” Tim wishes he could convey how proud he is of her for taking matters into her own hands before he gave the order, despite how much he knows it would have bothered her to complete the task.

“You’ll need your things for work, then, I take it?” Sarah asks, ready to maintain their cover.

“Yes,” Tim confirms, knowing he doesn’t have to specify for her to get his gear and properly assess his wardrobe for their situation.

“How long until they arrive? Should I make coffee?” Sarah says, but what she’s really asking is whether it’s safe to stay in the apartment.

“Yes,” Tim states unequivocally because he hasn’t yet done anything that will ping on the Markovs’ radar yet.

“Okay,” the word’s ragged with gratitude in Tim’s ear. “How wide’s the circle?” she asks, though the answer hasn’t changed since mom died.

“Holding at two,” he confirms that no one else knows who they are.

“See you tonight?” and she means it literally: she wants to know if she’ll see him before midnight.

“Yes, tonight,” he confirms. They each remain on the line another couple of seconds, the I love you going unspoken on both sides because it’s too dangerous to let your enemy know what you care about.


	5. Chapter 5

Tim spends the rest of the day in MTAC, tracing his own jog to and from Fornell’s house earlier that morning. He works as methodically as he normally would, making sure to progress as faithfully as he wagers Boss might expect of him in these situations. He plugs in the algorithm he came up with on his second year on the team to help him with his search and works with the short cut until he comes to the inevitable dead end of his search at the park. All the while he multitasks, making his way through the FBI’s data on Toli Markov.

His first stop in the data is the age progression photo. Tim spends long minutes looking at it on the small screen, spying the nose and chin and cheekbones he might have had if it weren’t for that plastic surgeon in Brazil. He, mom, and Sarah’d spent most of Toli’s ninth year there—long before his current identity as Tim McGee was ever conceived—either prepping for or recovering from the facial surgery. Tim doesn’t remember much about the days surrounding the surgery itself, only the way the pain never left and the way his mother’s whispered apologies came between strong words of how this had to be done.

He’d wondered for years why mom hadn’t had such surgery herself to try to hide a little better, but Tim’d realized while studying computer and latent forensics at MIT that, even with surgery, mom likely would have been largely identifiable. Because he was still a child, Toli’s features were much more malleable and would have grown into the surgical changes. Besides that, mom went back to Chicago every few years. It was like she couldn’t stop herself from trying to get just one more person out. If mom had had facial reconstruction surgery, too, the FBI and Anton Markov’s private investigators could have been able to trace the procedures back to the surgeon who performed them and then perhaps back to Toli as well, even if they’d used a different physician. The plastic surgery community was still comparatively small in the 1980s and doctors often recognized one another’s work.

Looking at the age progression photos now, the cheekbones in the manufactured pictures are too pronounced; the jaw, too square. He thinks maybe the eyes look too small by comparison, less green maybe. Tim doesn’t recognize himself in the image of the man he might have been. He hopes no one else can either. He resists the urge to print off a page, to see if Sarah can identify similarities that he can’t spy himself.

Sarah’s got a better eye for such details than he does despite Tim’s training as an investigator, maybe because he and mom always emphasized to Sarah that her first and best defense was hiding. Sarah’s always had to look at a situation and imagine how she could blend into it if she had to. That training always fights with her natural urge to speak out. It’d probably be funny if it weren’t so perilous.

Tim, on the other hand, was trained to find and neutralize threats to their family. He mostly did it by playing hide and seek on computers for a little while each night and by keeping an eye on everyone he and Sarah knew, looking for any abnormal behaviors—anything odd at all. He’s good at spotting patterns.

Tim closes the photo file and spies down to more of Toli’s vital information. Tim startles, breath caught in his suddenly dry throat, when he sees there are small, child-sized fingerprints on file for Toli Markov. Involuntarily, Tim lifts his hand, stares at his own fingers. He’d never imagined there’d be a fingerprint file for him. He never would have attempted to become a law enforcement officer had he considered the possibility. He squints at the screen in disbelief at his own stupidity. Why hadn’t he considered the possibility?

He wonders whose fingerprints are lying for him in the FBI database. Tim wonders who paid him that favor and when. Decades ago when he and mom had left? Or maybe that was one of the things mom did on one of her mysterious trips back? And had it been mom? Or maybe it had been an FBI agent—perhaps one sympathetic to mom and Toli’s plight or could it have been one that had been paid off?

He wonders whose prints are on file, knows that whoever they are, they have to be dead already or the ruse would never have worked.

He forces himself to look away from the prints and back to the details of Toli’s life as told by his father and his father’s employees. Toli had never had any friends. He’d played with a lot of kids who always let him win at everything and never disagreed with him, but he’d never had a friend until he’d left Toli behind. Much to Tim’s relief, there are a lot of little details in the file that are wrong, and though some of the inconsistencies with Tim’s memories might have to do with his age at the time as well as the intervening years, Tim knows he was never as athletic as the reports imagine. He’d always been a bookworm, even as Toli. Other details though are spot on.

One of Toli’s nannies had emphasized Tim’s love for swimming and contrasting avoidance of sailing, as well as the way he loved to run on the squeaking sands along the beaches of Lake Michigan. Tim had forgotten that small, distinct noise the sand sang beneath his feet, but as the memory strikes him, it inadvertently puts a smile on his face. Man, he’d loved playing in the dunes, the way he’d peek through the grass pretending to be a lion stalking his prey.

The memories continue to hit him hard after that—the sweet flavors of his favorite dessert—honey prianik—mix with his joy at always scoring a front row seat at Buckingham Fountain with every parade to march through Chicago. The St. Patrick’s Day Parade had always been his favorite. He’d loved the way they dyed the river green. His father had been displeased at Toli’s passion for such an un-Russian holiday, but Toli had loved Maslenitsa at least as much, and it had tempered his father’s displeasure for several years.

The memories stall Tim’s “progress” as he works through the FBI’s files on Anatoli Antonovich, though he’s certain the lag isn’t noticeable to others. He works straight through the day, fighting with the instinct to let himself binge on the past as waves of recall crash against his mind over and over again. Instead, Tim strives to focus on what’s important to him and Sarah now and what story he might be able to sell to the FBI about why Toli is completely and irrevocably lost to them without giving up the hope of capturing Anton Markov.

Over the course of the day, Tim only takes short breaks to snag a quick bite for lunch and make a couple trips to the head, and even then he only leaves the data after Gibbs comes in to watch over the information and keep it locked down. He knows Boss and Vance are looking at other potential secure areas in the building for Tim to complete the work so that they can get MTAC back, but the FBI director specifically asked SecNav that Tim work in MTAC and until they can come up with another area of comparable protection, Tim’s essentially taken it over.

The files on the portable hard drive are impossible to copy without marking the source file with the event, so Tim decides he’s going to have to create a work around for it when he goes to the safehouse that night. In the meantime, he accesses as many files as he can claim relevant to the current mission as possible. The good news and the bad news is that there are a lot of them.

The information will be invaluable to Tim and Sarah later. Once they can study it, figure out the FBI’s and Anton Markov’s tactics, it’ll help them avoid all the players in the game—especially if and when they have to run again. For now, the data is only informative enough to be terrifying. They were so much closer to getting caught in Denver than they ever knew. Tim notes he’ll have to tell Sarah immediately that they can never go back there. Too many of the people they knew were marked. Tim looks through the data as thoroughly as he can while still staying on task for the FBI, but it’s clear that mom was right to homeschool Sarah through the elementary years. It’s the only reason her existence is still unknown.

Mom was always so much more protective of Sarah than she was of Tim because, Tim’s certain, she knew that Tim could and would find a way to get out and to one of the safe locations on his own. Sarah was much too small to have been able to even try, and the proof of that fact, of the rightness of Mom’s decision, was right in front of Tim with the multiple near misses in their file, or rather, in Tim’s file.

Tim tries to keep moving through the data after that, tries to figure out as much as he can just in case it’s all taken away from him tomorrow.

Boss comes back into MTAC around ten that night. “Come on,” he tilts his head towards the door to the secure room.

Tim could protest. He wants to, feels almost maniacal about trying to keep looking, keep mining for information, but he knows Sarah’s waiting for him at the safehouse, needing to know what’s going on. “Alright,” he shuts down the programs he’s working on, resets the password on the portable drive, and places it in the safe within MTAC that Vance indicated earlier he should use for the hard drive.

Gibbs walks Tim to his desk. Tim gathers his things in seconds, and they head for the elevator. “Your car stays here while this is going on,” Gibbs orders once the doors close on the lift. “You don’t leave the Yard without an escort.”

Tim glances in Boss’ direction as they wait for their floor, wondering if he thought Tim would protest the lack of independence. Tim briefly debates with himself as to whether he normally would have argued the circumstances, if he would actually cede to following Gibbs’ ruling on this if the Markovs hadn’t been involved, if it had been any other criminal organization. Tim decides he wouldn’t have argued, not with the potential risk to Sarah.

“Okay,” he agrees.

Master Sergeant Jenkins, who’s been working security for the Yard since before Tim’s been an agent is waiting for them at the building entrance. He’s never on night shift. Instead, he usually organizes security for their entire quadrant of the Yard. Tim stalls as he sees Jenkins. People who are out of place have historically always been the first sign that his and Sarah’s lives have gone FUBAR. Except Boss takes Jenkins’ appearance in stride, offering him a grateful sort of nod as he does, and when the Sergeant keeps pace with Tim on the way to the Charger, it becomes clear that Boss asked Jenkins to take this shift because he trusts the man to watch Tim’s back.

“Thanks, Bill,” Boss nods to him once more.

“No problem, Gibbs,” he nods back. “Corporal Evanston is my son-in-law. He’ll be here on morning duty.”

Gibbs smiles in thanks at the favor, and Tim offers a smile of his own. “Thank you, Sergeant.”

“Be careful out there, kid.”

Tim nods, smile fading as he can’t help but wonder what the sergeant knows. “See you later.”

“They’ll check your car every day, but it should be safe in the Yard,” Boss points out as they pass by the uninspired Honda Tim bought after getting rid of the Porsche.

Tim had hated selling the pretty Boxster. He'd loved that car for its speed and maneuverability, but it had been a ludicrous purchase for him to make, far too showy. Sarah had alternated between begging to drive it and ranting to him about his hypocrisy for buying it. The downturn in the market had been the perfect excuse to get rid of it as well as to disperse the other funds from his book royalties. They probably hadn't even needed to do it at the time, but Tim decided to move most of their 'McGee' money around to different banks in the 'States and overseas, like Mom had already done with the 'Markov' money years before. He's unspeakably glad now that he did so. There's no such thing as too much money when you're on the run. Besides, in DC he and Sarah didn't need anything more than Tim's paycheck to survive on in any case.

Tim shrugs, gaze focused out the window as he looks for abnormalities. “I’m not worried about it.”

The drive is quick. Tim doesn’t ask where they’re going, but it becomes apparent after they cross the bridge and shoot up the parkway towards Arlington that Tim’s been to their destination before: They’re on the way to one of NCIS’s standard witness hideaways.

Tim feels his whole face pinch up. He tries to keep his brow unfurrowed, tries to seem less concerned than he feels as he works to think it out, weighs the safety of such positioning.

Ultimately, he and Sarah don’t have a choice for tonight, not unless they choose to take to the wind immediately, and Tim is certain that such a decision would not only be premature, but could be counterproductive as well. It could draw unnecessary attention to him and to Sarah.

Tim tries his best to relax for the duration of the journey, but nonetheless feels his spine shrink up with tension with every mile traveled. By the time Gibbs pulls into a parking spot down the street from their destination—having left the spot in the driveway behind Tony and Ziva’s car clear Tim notes approvingly—Tim feels ready to spring out of his seat as soon as the vehicle rolls to a stop. He forcibly tamps down the urge, instead, making himself take the time to check out the street around him, keeping his finger on the number 7 on his cellphone as he does.

“We’re good to go,” Gibbs’ quiet tones assure him in the silence of the car after he pulls the key from the ignition.

Tim nods but his eyes keep checking the street, using the mirrors around him rather than employing a more obvious tactic of turning to look. They shouldn’t know about him—about Toli—yet, but they might know if there’s a protected individual related to the Markov case being hidden away by NCIS. It’s possible they could be staking out the location.

“Tim,” Boss gently urges with a quick shake of Tim’s arm. “Let’s go,” he orders.

Tim nods. It’s possible they could be here, but not likely. Not yet. And so Tim lets his left hand and both feet obey Boss’ order while his other hand stays wrapped around his phone, finger poised and ready on number 7.

He keeps his head still, his eyes automatically roving around in every direction, into mirrors and windshields, peeking into alleys and keeping away from the streetlights to avoid the temporary blindness the glare would induce as he lets Boss take the lead toward the safehouse.

Boss pauses at the foot of the stairs, waiting for Tim and glancing around the neighborhood, looking more like a fed than he practically ever does. Tim winces, but takes the cue and speeds up the short set of stairs and onto the porch. He pulls open the storm door, which Boss will yell at him about later, and then Tim knocks four times—two short, one long, one short—so Sarah will know it’s him.

He hears the quiet, nearly silent scramble of his partners on the other side of the door, spies the quick adjustment and readjustment of the heavy curtain hiding the living room as somebody peaks from behind it, more than likely Ziva as she has the best night vision.

Jaw locked in anger at the ineffectual measures, Tim tries not to let the emotion show, but seriously why the hell do they have the lights on in the living room anyway? He hopes at least Sarah remembered her training and stayed upstairs. With houses this close to one another, a roof exit is her best bet for escape should the house be raided.

The door jerks open to Tony’s annoyed squint. He grabs Tim’s arm and yanks him inside. He shakes his head at Tim’s actions but then keeps the door open all the way while he’s waiting for Gibbs to climb the stairs and enter the house.

“What was that with the screen door, Probie?” Tony smacks the back of Tim’s head. “What if Probetter-Shot-Than-You was a little jumpier than she usually is and gave you a bullet through the gut?”

Tim shakes his head in seeming apology as he watches Boss close the door and twist every lock. His eyes switch to Ziva who resets the silent alarm to assure the people monitoring at headquarters that everything is okay. If Tim were trying to steal into this house, then he’d do it from a window or the backdoor as someone entered from the front but before the inside person at the security panel could reset the locks. He’ll have to tell Sarah to look out for that.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tim spies Boss direct a single quick shake of his head Tony’s way. Tony drops his head and purses his lips in acquiescence, but Tim can tell he’ll be hearing more from Tony about his supposed lax security procedures later on, when Boss has left them alone.

He barely hears the footfall on the stairs. The stealthiness nearly makes him smile. When he raises his head, he spies her coming into view—his baby sister has one hand in her pocket where Tim knows her finger will be poised above the number 3, Tim’s number—the other hand stays on her hip to keep her from touching anything unnecessarily and leaving her fingerprints behind. Her medium brown hair is clenched tightly into two braided pigtails bunched and pinned at the base of her skull. She’s wearing a nondescript long sleeved t-shirt and jeans. Her shoes have double knots in the laces. He has to smile this time, because he sees she’s done her job. She’s ready to run.

She doesn’t leave the bottom landing in the stairwell to walk down the last few steps that would put her in front of Tim. Those last couple of stairs are right in front of the window. If she were standing on those last steps when someone had eyes inside, they would have an almost unencumbered shot of her.

He nods at her choices, feeling his pride in her seep from his eyes like tears to cover the rest of his features. Sarah’s shoulders straighten at the unspoken praise, and she jerks her chin in pleased acknowledgement. The shared happiness comes seconds before her brows furrow and she pulls her hand from her pocket to cross her arms over her chest.

“We are in a federal safehouse,” the words are as pinched as her mouth. Federal has always meant something too close to FBI for Sarah to ever be comfortable with it. She’d hated it when he told her he was joining NCIS, even after he’d explained how separate the agencies actually were in practice, even after he explained that NCIS rarely took cases that were even remotely related to crime families.

Stepping towards her, he’s careful to mind the windows. He stops a foot away from the first step up towards the landing. “This is an NCIS safehouse,” he corrects because there’s a world of difference there, “and we’re here with my team.”

There’s a warning to Sarah in his words, and she hears it immediately: _They know me too well to talk freely in front them, even in code_. She nods her acquiescence and drops her eyes. He can see the shame in her posture when she realizes how precipitously she spoke. She’d never have been so free with her words if she weren’t terrified, and Tim’s so proud of her for working through her fear and not only coming here with his team, but staying here with them even after she realized the nature of the location they’d taken her to.

“Hey, Little Star,” her eyes lift but her head stills absolutely at the old nickname—Tim’s the one giving away secrets to his team now. “It’ll be okay,” he promises. “I’ll meet you upstairs, alright?”

Sarah licks her lips and nods. Her right hand goes back into her pocket immediately to land on her phone. She glances between Tim and the rest of his team. “In twenty,” the phrase may sound like a time limit, a demand for when Sarah expects to see Tim, but she knows he plans to check through the house—like she would have done the second she stepped through the door—and she’s only telling him how long it took her.

“Or less,” he teases her.

She raises a sharp eyebrow, eyes darting towards his teammates before landing back on him. “We’ll see,” her eyes sparkle, and Tim has to grin at both how well she reads his team and how strongly her personality asserts itself even through the danger.

He watches until she walks up and from his sight, but keeps his ears open until he hears the door to her chosen bedroom shut and the two brief knocks—short, short—that tell him she’s okay.

“A little bit of overkill with the Big Brother routine, isn’t it, Tim?” Tony lays a light hand on his arm to ask, but Tim can feel the nervousness radiating off his partner’s body, can hear it in the obvious lack of a McNickname.

He glances down and towards Tony. As his eyes make their way up his partner’s body, he notes the double holster that sports a handgun beneath each of Tony’s arms, notes he’s wearing the belt that boasts the sharpest knife at its buckle, as well as another knife holstered to his ankle.

“You talking about you or me?” Tim smirks, making eye contact briefly before his eyes flit back down to the twin sigs.

Tony glares at him as if by reflex, but there’s more concern than irritation in the gesture. Tim feels his brows soften. His hand pats Tony’s shoulder to show his appreciation for his partner’s defense of Sarah. “I should have let you get her when you asked,” Tim acknowledges, shaking his head as his gaze drops. “I just never imagined—” he begins but can’t finish the lie. “I mean, I didn’t—” he tries again but what he really wants to say is that his team are the only people he would ever take this chance on, and he can’t even begin to tell them anything of the sort.

“Hey,” Tony squeezes Tim lightly at the joint of his shoulder and neck, “it’s okay, Probie,” Tony promises, and Tim can see in his stance how prepared, how ready and willing Tony is to share his burden.

“We are here for you and Sarah, McGee,” Ziva adds, wrapping her hand around Tim’s bicep. “Always.”

Tim catches Ziva’s gaze and then looks between his partners. A moment later, his eyes seek out Gibbs, but Boss has somehow managed to silently exit the foyer where the rest of the team lingers.

“You disabled the alarm when you let us in,” Boss’ voice accuses from the open doorway towards the kitchen. “That left the back door unsecured,” Gibbs points out Tim’s unvoiced concern from a few minutes before. “We’re not doing that again,” his eyes are as stern as possible without actually glaring at Tony and Ziva.

“Tim,” Boss commands more softly towards McGee, the gentleness in his tone setting Tim offguard, “can you program the system to only disconnect the front door alarm instead of the whole house when we let someone in?”

McGee’s mouth drops open at the gift, and he blinks dumbly as he formulates a response. “I—I—” he stutters and then grabs the opportunity with both hands, “Yes, of course.” Tim McGee is no good at things like strategy and safety management, often relying too heavily on his team to make those calls for him, and his team knows this about him. It would have been suspicious if Tim had seen a hole in security that Tony and Ziva had missed. Toli, on the other hand, sees nothing but those chances his adversaries have to take advantage of his lowered guard.

Toli’s always there in the back of Tim’s mind, screaming at him to stop taking so many chances, but Tim’s had to put his old instincts on hold in recent years in order to learn how to trust his team and to grow with them. He finds it so hard to balance who he is underneath with who he’s supposed to be. Still, as long as he’s been Tim McGee, he’s never mixed up his assumed identity with his origins. He always knows who he’s supposed to be when he’s supposed to be that person. Of course, he’s only Toli for Sarah and for those few hours most nights on the computer when he’s finding new ways to keep them hidden from their father and teaching Sarah those same skills. It’s been years since he truly worried about his team finding out his identity—not since he realized Mossad couldn’t break into his real background. Even now he’s not so much worried about his team finding out as he is about their potential attempts to dig for data or to unknowingly pump the wrong person for information about him and Sarah. His team, as well as Abby and Ducky and Palmer, are all excellent investigators in their fields, but not a one of them is very subtle. They don’t have the patience for it—not even Gibbs. Well, sometimes, especially not Gibbs.

Tim pushes Toli to the back of his mind and from there it takes him three minutes to reprogram the security system, communicating with Agent Davis at Headquarters—three kids to put through college within the next five years and an ex-wife he never got over—the entire time. Davis is never out in the field anymore, not since the knee replacement surgery. Instead, he got permanently reassigned to the surveillance division. He’s a good guy, but he’d be easy to catch out. He loves too many people. It would be a simple thing for one of the Markov enforcers to overpower Davis and force him to do what they wanted. Tim aches to set up a verbal password between them, an early warning system if Davis becomes compromised, but he doesn’t want to make a point of the danger he’s placed himself and Sarah in, doesn’t want Davis to give him a second thought.

Tim forces himself to hang up with Davis, keeping the conversation as light as he’s able to even as his fingers clench and his hands form into fists. He looks over the panel one more time—then again—then once more. It’s a decent system, and the signals go directly into NCIS headquarters, and he knows there’s always a group of agents on call and alert for just such an emergency, but there are just too many variables, especially human variables beyond Tim’s control for him to be satisfied with it.

“Come, McGee,” Ziva’s warm fingers pat at the right side of his waist—carefully away from his gun—with the soft command. “We will check the house together.”

Tim twists to meet her gaze, immediately seeing her worry for him as well as her determination to protect him and Sarah. Tim stills at the sight, feeling his dishonesty with every cell in his body. It’s not right of him to ask or accept Ziva’s protection—or any of his team’s protection—when they don’t know what they are getting into. Tim’s eyes go up to find Tony and Gibbs, the former watching with concern for him, the latter somehow emoting it even as he keeps his eyes locked onto the camera feed coming from outside.

Tim nods, and he follows Ziva to the basement, mentally evaluating and marking the risks as he goes. The basement is fairly nondescript with mostly open spaces around the central staircase and barred, bulletproof windows lining the outer walls. While the basement has a locked cabinet full of weapons and body armor, anybody who gets trapped in the basement would be dead within three to five minutes. There’s no way out, and anyone down here would be a sitting duck for a grenade. Even a flash-bang or smoke bomb would easily incapacitate anybody in the basement because there would be no escape if enemy combatants held the floor above.

Tim resolves that Sarah won’t have cause to come down here again. He wishes he could demand the same of his team, but they would probably imagine the basement a temporary safe haven where they might hold out that much longer, as if backup might make it in time to save them.

Jaw clenching as he looks around at the death trap, Tim almost doesn’t feel the gentle sweep of Ziva’s thumb on the back of his hand at first. “This was a mistake,” Ziva somehow pulls the raspy words from him without doing anything at all.

Ziva shifts from her position at his side to stand in front of him. “This situation,” she leads, studying his eyes for the way he’d usually give everything away, “Tony and I realize that much more is occurring than we have been told. We know you are in significant danger, and that Sarah may be as well,” her voice is light and forgiving, “You do not have to do whatever Fornell has asked of you.” Unsubtly, she urges, “If you believe it to be a mistake, then you should tell him you have changed your mind.”

Tim shuts his eyes against the absolution, the temptation, Ziva offers and her tone abruptly changes to nearly pleading with him as if sensing how much he wants to walk away from this. From everything. “There is something wrong with this situation,” she squeezes his hand more tightly. “I know you do not see it, but after speaking with Sacks this morning, I found there was a complete edict at the FBI against talking about whatever this is with the Markov ca—”

Tim’s lids fly open. He steps towards his partner, twisting his hand from beneath hers to grab her wrist. “People at the FBI already know there’s a forbidden topic related to the Markovs?” Tim demands, the final vowel of his former last name coming out a little too rounded for his assumed Irish-American heritage.

Ziva blinks, eyes impossibly wide, the muscles in her wrist tightening spastically, and Tim’s almost certain if he were any other man, he’d have had his balls handed to him by now.

He loosens his grip of her immediately, but can't make himself drop her hand. "Geez," he winces at his thoughtlessness. Ever since coming back from Somalia, Ziva hates a man moving into her space abruptly when she's unprepared. He's tried to let her know he's here to listen about anything she wants to say about what happened to her there, but he can't make himself ask. That doesn't mean he doesn't know.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, breathless with old memories of the horrors he’s imagined. He shifts his grip again, letting her hand rest against his without trapping it there, giving her control of the contact between them.

Breaths coming slow and deep, Ziva doesn’t take her eyes off him as if reassessing his potential to be a threat. Her sights burn through him, unwavering, making him wonder how deeply inside him she sees—if she sees Toli there beneath Tim. He knows he should relax his stance, gentle his returning stare and let her look her fill—knows that the people who know Tim best are least likely to imagine Toli cowering underneath it all, but he also knows that the woman in front of him has held many different names for herself, too. From the relative safety of his position in the control room of different undercover missions, he’s seen her pick up and shed alternate identities like garments of clothing in a changing room. He knows Ziva has the capacity to find Toli if she looks.

The thing that makes him blink, makes Tim reassert himself, is realizing that he wants her to find Toli as she probes him. He wants to share this struggle with someone who’d hold his secret safe, who would help him protect Sarah and listen to his fears and failures. But of course he can never have that. He blinks and ducks his head, an apology already on his lips.

“I’m sorry,” his face pinches up, closes him off from her as he lets her go. “I’m sorry,” he breathes again because he can never tell anyone, and it’s so wrong of him to flirt with this fantasy of sharing this burden. He could never bring someone else into this life. He can never marry or have children—he knows this now. It took him a long while to figure it out, and he wonders if that’s why he fixated on Abby for so long—Abby who didn’t want him back—because he could let himself feel gloriously and beautifully in love and not have to put anyone else at risk. He can never tell or hint to anyone about who he is without endangering his life and more importantly—Sarah’s.

Sarah. His neck twists towards the stairs. She’s waiting for him and worrying and he’s down here acting like a moron. He shakes his head and drops his chin towards his chest, feeling the stress of the last several days, the lack of sleep, and the barely controlled terror hitting him in progressive waves.

“Tali,” Ziva moves back into Tim’s space, unafraid of him again, “Tali died shortly after I became a part of Mossad. There was,” he hears her swallow, and opens his eyes but offers her the privacy of not looking at her, “there was a mission I was a part of. It is still classified,” she shrugs her shoulder as if that doesn’t matter, as if the secrecy is redundant, not important at all between them. Tim feels his eyes narrow and slowly follow the line of her body back to her face. “After the 2000 Cross-Border Raid,” she continues as he visually evaluates her in her disclosure. “Mossad decided Hezbollah need to be decimated,” she confides what she shouldn’t to him. “I was compromised,” a whisper. “My father told me the bombing that killed Tali was a coincidence,” Ziva shakes her head, her loose, straightened hair shimmering with the rapid movement in the dim light of the basement. “He showed me proof, but I am certain he would have lied to me even if it were not so.”

Tim drops his head again, biting his lip, knowing Tim McGee would mourn with her in this moment and try to ease her burden of guilt, but Toli can only condemn Tim’s friend for her lack of discretion and tell him she is unworthy of his secrets.

“It’s not your fault,” Tim reaches through his inner turmoil to gently pat his friend’s forearm, giving Ziva plenty of notice to see him in advance this time.

“Perhaps,” she accepts his comfort, holding her hand over his and rubbing her thumb over his skin. He enjoys the contact with her, even finds himself leaning into her, but he hates the compromise she just made, sacrificing her former ideals and loyalties for her current ones. The very idea makes Tim sick to his stomach. “But I will never know if it was my choices that led to her death.”

Tim crinkles his brow, feels his arm still above Ziva’s. “You don’t think I can do this,” he says what she will not state outright.

Ziva shakes her head, “I did not say that,” but she doesn’t look him in the eye. When she lies to him, she either looks him directly in the eye or not at all. The former is for when she prepares to lie to him in advance, the latter for spur of the moment fibs. Ziva may be an excellent actress, but she’s a terrible liar. She hates lies and always seeks to have the truth between her and the people she cares about, no matter how ugly that truth is.

“I do not even know what this is,” Ziva brings her gaze back up to his when she changes the subject.

Dropping his hand, Tim shakes his head and backs away. He isn't certain if she intentionally told him her secret in order to try to get him to tell her his orders, and if he were just Tim he wouldn't have seen the possibility anyway, but Toli's had way too many people try to play him over the years.

The truth is, “You know too much already.” No one should have even mentioned the name Anatoli Antonovich to her or to Tony. It was far too dangerous, and if Tim could have found a way to insist on keeping them in the dark without drawing suspicion to himself, then he would have done it. “I’m going to check the other floors.” The words barely escape his mouth before he’s taking the stairs two at a time.


	6. Chapter 6

The rest of the house takes him another fifteen minutes to work through. By the time he knocks on the door to Sarah’s room—short, short, long—35 minutes have passed since he saw her on the stairwell. She’s sitting quietly in a wooden chair in the dark, right hand in her pocket, finger poised over the speed dial, even though Tim’s been conveying his presence pretty loudly from the time he hit the stairs. Her shoulders are loose where she sits with her back to him, but her feet are under her and her back’s not against the chairback.

He watches her track his movements, first with her ears, then with her eyes, until he kneels in front of her. Gently, he rests his hands, one above the other, on her knee.

“We’re safe tonight, Little Star,” his deliberate use of the nickname for the second time that night has her narrowing her eyes at him. It must be obvious to her that he wants his team to know this special name he has for her.

Her voice is warm for the benefit of anyone in the house who may be listening but she moves her foot to step on his toes when she says, “You haven’t called me that since I was a little girl.” You haven’t used that name since before we were the McGees, she doesn’t need to remind him of the level of privacy—of protection—the name held, but she is anyway.

“I know,” the words are soft but sure. “I had a lot of nicknames for you back then,” he quietly declares, letting her know he’s given away the only one he plans to.

A subtle nod of her acquiescence and her shoe eases up on his toes.

“You did well today, Little Star,” he cups her cheek in his hand. “I’m proud of you.” The words are soft but forceful as Tim tries to convey the depth of his approval.

Sarah bites her lip to whiteness in the faint light coming from around the curtains. Her hands trap his where it nestles against her cheek. Another second later and she stuffs one of her palms in her mouth.

“It’s alright,” he carefully doesn’t shush her as he promises. “It’s okay to be scared.”

Sarah immediately shakes her head at that, probably tearing holes in her skin with the motion.

“It’s alright to cry.” He rubs his fingers along the hand she’s abusing, trying to coax it from her mouth. It always takes long minutes before he’s able to convince her it’s safe to cry aloud and by then, Sarah will have bloody gouges in her hand. Mom taught her to cry this way, to mourn and to be afraid and sad as silently as possible. Mom might have taught Toli to cry that way, too, had his father not already taught him to never— _ever_ —cry. _Markov men don’t cry_ , Toli tries to block it out but cannot help but to hear his father’s voice over the light traffic coming from the street and the muted shuffling and disproportionately tense discussion of Tony and Ziva’s argument downstairs about whether Tim should grab a couple of slices of the pizza that Tony had picked up earlier or whether he needed a real dinner.

He continues with the soft motion back and forth along the length of her hand and leans in to speak softly—but not to whisper—in her ear, “I hope it’s going to be a sunny day tomorrow,” he does his best not to give emphasis to the word hope, though he knows his next repetitions of it will make it stand out anyway. “I hope we get some doughnuts for breakfast,” he continues. “I hope they don’t mess up the next three Star Wars movies,” he tries for irreverent, not sure when she’ll start to hear him. “I hope Tony remembers he owes me ten bucks from dinner last week. I hope Ziva isn’t the one driving to work tomorrow. I hope Boss forgets I’m behind on the paperwork for the last three cases.”

Her breathing evens out a little, and the skin in her hand becomes a little less tight.

“I hope Greg Ottermeyer trips over his shoelaces today,” Sarah’s first boyfriend. He dumped her the day before the junior prom. It was the first time someone other than their father was responsible for breaking Sarah’s heart. “I hope there’s another Harry Potter book in the works. I hope somebody finds a superfood in the middle of the Amazon that tastes like Hershey’s chocolate,” she offers him a soft smile around her tortured hand at that one.

Now that he knows she’s listening, he can start conveying information to her, “I hope we never get food poisoning like we did that time skiing in Colorado. Ever.” Sarah’s neck jerks up sharply at Tim’s pronouncement, hand falling clear as she does. She shakes her head in question, but he simply nods, trying to get across his point of the danger they would be in if they returned to Colorado. To Denver. A moment later, Sarah nods back in acquiescence.

“I hope the data I’m looking through pans out to send people to jail who need to go to jail, and free people who need to be free,” that’s as much as he can tell her while the chance of being eavesdropped on is so high, but he needs her to understand how important it is that he pursues this opportunity.

A moment passes by without any voiced aspirations. Sarah’s tongue darts out as she thinks over Tim’s pronouncement. He can see a bit of blood on her incisors from this angle. “I hope you succeed,” she offers her blessing for the choices he’s already made for them and with it, her agreement to abide by his decisions.

He grins at her and kisses the knuckles of the smallest fingers on her abused hand. “I live for Hope. For keeping Hope alive and shining so beautifully and brilliantly,” he quietly declares, still smiling, knowing she’s the only one who can hear the capitol ‘H’ that declares he means her name this time—her real name—or at least as close as he can get in English.

She smiles back softly. “I know you do.” She squeezes his hand, “I just wish—”

“Aahhh,” Tim interrupts with a hard, American sounding ‘a.’ “We’re McGees,” he reminds her. “We hope, and we do. We never wish.”

Mom was never a McGee—she hadn’t lived long enough, but that was another of her rules: _Never wish for what you can never have. Such will only make you miserable._

“Right,” Sarah rolls her eyes at him. “No wishing, just hoping.”

“And doing,” Tim reminds her.

“Of course,” she infuses as much sarcasm as possible into her reply, but the fight’s totally gone from her. She leans into Tim completely, letting him take part of her weight as exhaustion hits her—he isn’t the only one who’s been awake for more than 24 hours.

“Hope,” he whispers in her ear, wanting her to hear her true name beneath the tones. _Nadya—Russian for Hope_.

He knows she hears his meaning when she responds, “I love you, T.” _T is for Toli between them, never for Tim._

“Love you, too,” he gives her the expression freely, the way he offers his protection and his energy and the only truth he has left. “We’re safe here,” he promises again, and it’s actually true. They are about as safe now as they have been anyplace. Of course, by tomorrow morning, that truth will become a lie.


	7. Chapter 7

He dreams about his mother:

_In the middle of a landfill, faces he wishes he could have forgotten loom over her abused body, beating her and raping her again and again. He smells the trash all around him where he lays on his belly underneath and amid a large pile of garbage, watching as they lash, strike, punch her in front of him—first with their fists and then with baseball bats that appear from nowhere. Seconds later he realizes the pervasive odor seeping through his senses is from the decomposition of his mother’s rotting corpse. He gags at the understanding, but his father and his uncles hear his weakness._

_He runs._

_They chase him._

_“Nadya!” he’s already hoarse when he screams for her, looking for the child she was but finding Sarah instead. She’s already running, too, but she’s going towards him._

_“Sarah!” he reaches a hand towards her and points her away from him. Away from them. “No! Go! Go now! The rendezvous!” he orders her in his dream, though he’d never actually use such a charged term—the better to keep them hidden._

_She doesn’t even have time to turn before a heavy, bloody hand reaches onto her shoulder, yanks her to the huge body of a man that’s just as heavy and just as bloody._

_“Otyets,”_ Father, _Sarah whispers her terror._

 _“Horoshow, Toli,”_ Good, Toli, _his father praises without even looking at Sarah, “Tuy prinesla yeyo mne,”_ You brought her to me.

_Sarah twists her neck to look on Tim—“No, Toli!”—with the horror of betrayal in her eyes._

_Toli viciously shakes his head, “Nyet! Nyet!”_ No! _Tim echoes inside his head._ Sarah, I swear to you! _He thinks in English, but the words come out in Russian, “Nadya, tebya klyanus!”_

_And suddenly there’s a pinch on his hand, and when he turns to look, it’s Nadya—the little girl Sarah used to be before they became the McGees. She’s seven years old. He can tell by the New Kids on the Block headband she’s wearing. She loved them fiercely until the day the Backstreet Boys came out._

_“When’s Mom coming home, Toli?” she asks, still yanking on his arm while his father disappears like he’d never been there, as the trash heap surrounding them becomes solid white nothingness._

_“I didn’t tell you,” he bites his lip as his dream becomes more lucid. “I don’t know how.”_

_“Why won’t you tell me?” she asks him, and as a little girl, Nadya’s puzzled rather than scared like the adult Sarah was. “Don’t you know I figured it out a long time ago?”_

When he opens his eyes to the little bedroom he and Sarah share in the NCIS safehouse, that pinch on his hand is just as real as in his dream. He licks his lips and acknowledges Sarah’s silent insistence of his wakefulness with a squeeze back. Immediately the pressure eases. He waits for his heart to calm down before he looks at her where she lays beside him on the other pillow. There’s a net over her hair—just as there is over his—and neither of them uses the bedcovers, instead having gone to sleep atop the comforter wearing long sleeves, pants, and socks—the better to minimize the DNA they’ll leave behind.

Sarah doesn’t ask him about his nightmare, though that’s obviously why she woke him up. He wonders if she’s having trouble sleeping or if he woke her with his dream about Mom.

 _Mom_.

“Myertva ona,” _She’s dead_ , he doesn’t intend to confess aloud.

Sarah doesn’t tense or jerk or cry or gasp. Instead, she rubs her thumb on the back of his hand over his knuckles. “Znayou,” _I know_ , Sarah whispers back.

Silence stretches between them as his mind loops between his dream and Fornell’s words about Mom from the day before.

“Ploho Buhlo?” _Was it bad?_ Sarah finally asks.

He leans back against his pillow, staring at the ceiling. Licking his lips, he blinks once as the dream comes back to him. He wonders if it happened to her like his dream imagines, even as he knows that isn’t so, knows his father preferred knives when he tortured people, and Uncle Vanya had a bizarre fascination with acids. His favorite was sulfuric acid because it burnt his victims twice; first with the initial contact, and second with the dehydration it caused. His mind won’t even let him consider his father’s other associates and their predilections. Regardless, he knows his dream is nothing compared to the horrors of what she would have actually suffered.

He blinks more rapidly, several times now. His face crumples, but he doesn’t cry. He wishes he could. “Da,” he nods once with the whisper, but his body feels otherwise frozen by that admission.

A moment of silence passes between them, and then Sarah leans her head against his shoulder. He waits for her to ask for details about what happened. Every muscle in his body stays tense as he imagines what she’ll want to know, if she’ll ask him to find out more about it or— _please no_ —to read the autopsy report.

“Shh,” she shushes him unnecessarily—he’s barely even breathing. “It’s okay,” she promises, the words a puff of air across his upper arm.

“Geez!” Tim sits straight up in the bed at hearing her words in English. _They were speaking in Russian when they should have been the McGees!_

Sarah sits up beside him. Brow furrowed in concern, she barely opens her mouth to speak before Tim’s whole hand is over it, unambiguously shutting it. She stiffens, and he feels the fear travel through her at the unexpected contact like it’s twisting up his own spine anew. He drops his arm to hold it tightly to his side.

“Remember your colors!” he tersely explains, though the old reminder of which flag, _which identity_ , they’re using to fly under the radar is more directed to himself than Sarah, but Sarah still stiffens—Tim hasn’t spoken that phrase as an admonishment since their first year as the McGees. After that, neither of them needed to be reminded of who they were supposed to be at any given time.

Yanking on his shoulders, Sarah forces him to face her. “We’re in an NCIS safehouse with _your team_ ,” she reminds him of the confidence he had in his team last night, a faith he loaned to her mere hours ago.

Tim nods his acknowledgement of the facts as they were the night before. “But today’s a new day,” he points out. His eyes drop for a second—two max—before he drags them back up to look her in the eye. “From here on out, anything can happen,” he tells her what he couldn’t last night.

“Story of my life,” she comes back immediately, but her nearly pithy words underlie a harder, surer tone. She’s telling him she’s ready for this.

Tim shakes his head, already overwhelmed and exhausted by the knowledge of what he has to do today, how tremendously he has to pretend, and he’s never gotten Tim and Toli mixed up before but he _just did_. “I don’t think I can—”

She pinches his earlobe—viciously—shutting him up instantly.

“Understand something,” she lays her hand back down onto his shoulder. “You don’t carry this burden alone. We carry it together,” her words are calm and direct, but kind. “Who called the shots on the last three vacations we took?” They’ve never actually taken a vacation. They only run practice drills of their emergency protocols.

“You did,” Tim concedes. He’d wanted to make sure she knew what to do in case he became captured or incapacitated. Mom had eased Toli into his own role leading Sarah in the same way. He hadn’t been ready for it back then, though. That’s why they spent five months living in a state park in California while Tim tried to find a way around child protective services.

“I know you don’t want me to be in danger at all,” Sarah continues, gaze not giving him an inch, not letting him look away. “But we didn’t have a choice. We still don’t have a choice.” She smiles and leads, “ _When you’re cornered_ …” but she doesn’t complete their mother’s wisdom: _You find a way to stand, or find a way to run_ , Tim’s mind fills in the blank instead. “I want to stand this time, Tim,” Sarah pleads with him. “Even if we fail.”

Abruptly, Tim shakes his head. “You say that now, but you never knew what he—” his voice breaks, but he could have filled the silence that followed with a million different things of what Sarah didn’t know—what their father was capable of, how their mother suffered everyday under his thumb, how Toli watched people being hurt, even brutalized simply because they’d displeased his father.

Sarah begins anew, more quietly this time, “I understand that they’re worth the risk to you.” Her eyes briefly drop to the floor, indicating the storey below them and his team.

His jaw locks, and he blinks away. Two days ago, when he’d first mentioned Agent Thomas to her, he hadn’t made it quite so personal, hadn’t made it about the team. He’d only said that there were agents in danger, and that it would be wrong of him not to step in and do his best to try to save them if he could. The truth is, though, he’s not sure how far he would have gone to try to save the task force if his team hadn’t been on it. He hates that about himself, hates the impotence his father still somehow manages to enforce upon him even through hundreds of miles and tens of years.

“It’s okay,” her words are gentle, offering absolution for all his sins—sins against her whom he may be compromising even now, against the team whom he may be endangering by not speaking out loudly enough about what he knows, and against the rest of the task force whom he may not have tried to save at all if circumstances were just slightly different.

“This is the right choice,” she promises, cupping his face in one hand.

He leans into her touch, feeling echoes of their mother in the way Sarah seeks to comfort him, wishes so acutely Mom were here to guide him through this landmine that she was so much more familiar with overcoming than he was. He bites his lip, trying to accept Sarah’s pardon.

He shakes his head, “If it’s not the right choice…” he leads but can’t continue.

Sarah finishes it for him, “Then we already know what to do anyway.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted with gratitude to everyone who has liked, sent kudos, followed, or reviewed this fic and especially to FrznTears, Nikki, ENIGMA LADY, sasha, ocnbeach2yahoo, jdgatorbait, Sazzita, Yammy1983, Val, blinddivinity, rigger42, Shae Vizla, Gina Callen, Hisuiko, Luvable, horsegirlrule, 1sunfun, jmsings, Gracfully, meri47, JonnyP86, mcgeeksgirl, reina13, and Precious Pup.

Several hours later, Tim reluctantly leaves Sarah at the safehouse with Ziva and lets Boss and Tony drive him into the Yard. As Sargent Jenkins promised Gibbs the night before, Corporal Evanston is ready and waiting for them. When Gibbs asks, Evanston reports that nothing unusual happened in the Yard overnight. Tim scans the Corporal’s face carefully as he speaks, but he can find no hint of deception behind the man’s boyish features and serious eyes.

 

“Is Sarah okay, this morning?” Tony tentatively asks as Gibbs walks ahead, not so far as to actually be out of earshot but enough to offer the illusion of privacy between the partners.

 

Tim nods, his eyes never ceasing their scan of the area around them, looking for any unexpected changes in the patterns of the Yard that he knows so well. “Yeah,” he confirms verbally a moment later. “She doesn’t like the upset in her life, and she’s concerned about the danger we’re in, but she realizes that this has to be done.”

 

Tim catches Tony’s nod from his peripheral vision, but there’s a woodenness in the motion that has Tim glancing over at his partner full-on. Narrowing his eyes, Tim tries to discern what he might be missing from Tony’s lack of a reply.

 

“What?” the demand spurs from his lips when Tony stays abnormally silent.

 

Tony glances Tim’s way and only briefly returns his gaze before moving to scan the area himself, though Tim doubts how vigilant Tony might be through his pronounced if unvoiced distraction. Tim keeps his eye on his partner, now using his peripheral vision to keep track of where he’s going as well.

 

Tony winces. It’s never taken him long to break under Tim’s silent stare—Tony pretty much hates silence more than anything. When Tony still doesn’t voice his concern, Tim stills him with a hard hand at Tony’s elbow, halting them both in their tracks while Gibbs takes a few more steps forward. Tony watches Boss’ movement, doesn’t look over towards Tim’s face less than a foot away from his own until they both see Gibbs halt and turn around, having sensed their lack of motion.

 

Tim watches Tony and Boss’ silent communication as reflected in Tony’s slight facial expressions. Boss doesn’t come any closer to them, no one does even though Tim’s essentially got a security detail on him and he’s still exposed in the open air of the courtyard between the parking lot and Headquarters. It’s both a professional courtesy and a lack of understanding at the depth of the danger that Tim’s in that his team and Corporal Evanston don’t shuffle him inside immediately.

 

Tony drops his head for a moment before finally lifting his eyes and meeting Tim’s gaze. “It’s a big house where we’re staying, Tim,” Tony begins with a non-sequitur.

 

Tim squints at Tony, trying to figure out where Tony’s going with this before he gets there. McGee offers a brief nod of acquiesce at Tony’s statement.

 

“And Sarah had the run of it,” Tony continues, “but she didn’t come down from the second floor for hours—not until you got there, not even to eat,” Tony takes a step towards Tim, closing the already tight space between them.

 

Tim’s never liked being in close quarters with anyone—it’s harder to see what’s going on and harder to work your way out of a situation at all—let alone unobtrusively—if someone’s standing too closely inside your space. Tony’s always been a close-talker, though. It’s something that Tim’s had to become accustomed to over the years. Mostly it doesn’t even bother him anymore. Mostly.

 

“It’s a big house,” Tony briefly looks down at Tim’s posture as he repeats himself, which is the only reason Tim realizes he’s stiffened at his partner’s invasion, “with enough bedrooms for each of us to take a separate one, but you and Sarah shared a room.”

 

Tim furrows his brow and tucks his chin in confusion while he shakes his head. “Why wouldn’t we?”

 

Tony briefly glances towards the sky in exasperation before pinching his lips and looking right back to Tim, “Look, I know that you and Sarah are close, but you know that’s weird, right?”

 

Blinking in surprise, Tim studies his partner, and startles to realize that Tony’s not just trying to get a rise out of him but is instead being sincere. Then Tim’s mind spins as he wonders whether Tony’s point of view is the norm, if outsiders would consider something that’s as mundane to Tim and Sarah as sleeping arrangements abnormal. _Is where we sleep weird enough to make us memorable?_ Tim wonders abruptly. They strive so hard towards being forgettable, but sometimes it’s difficult to always be unrecognized for who you are or what you can do. Sarah especially struggles with it. But at least they’re usually pretty good at figuring out what normal is in order to pretend they belong there. At least Tim thinks they are.

 

“What’s your point?” Tim presses Tony back hoping to redirect Tony’s attention.

 

“Tell me you’re not this obtuse,” Tony pushes farther into Tim’s face, and Tim can see immediately that he’s doing it on purpose, trying to get Tim off balance in order to get a baser reaction from him.

 

Even though it’s only Tony, Tim feels his whole body stiffen and his jaw clench in a way he knows it wouldn’t have just three days before. The muscles in his calves tighten up as they prepare to run. “State your problem or back off,” low and dark, the words pass his lips without forethought.

 

Tony tilts his head, glances down then back up Tim’s body as if to let Tim know he notices the defensive stance. “What did you tell her?”

 

Tim doesn’t move but he can tell his eyes reflect his confusion when Tony elaborates, “Sarah is terrified. What did you tell her about the case you’re working on?”

 

“Nothing. I didn’t,” Tim shakes his head, defending himself easily against Tony’s incorrect assumptions. Tim’s told her practically nothing about the details of the case. He didn’t have to.

 

“You didn’t,” Tony comes back flatly, not so much an acknowledgement of Tim’s statement as an expression of disbelief.

 

“No,” Tim remains firm, “I didn’t tell her anything.”

 

Tim watches Tony’s eyes first tighten in consideration and then ease into confusion as he accepts Tim’s answer as truth. “Then why is she so afraid?” Tony’s tone softens into a whisper. “Why are you?”

 

Tim has to tamp down his first instinct, knowing that lying to Tony outright has never worked well for him in the past. More than that, Tim hates the fact that Tony doesn’t know the level of danger Tim’s placed the team in.

 

“Tim?” Voice just as soft as before, Tony pushes like he always does.

 

“Because I know how bad a situation I’ve gotten us into,” Tim practically spits the words into Tony’s face in his anger, and he’s so _very_ angry—angry at himself for not standing up to his father before, angry at his father for being such an inhumanely despicable person, angry at Agent Thomas for refusing to live up to the ideals of the badge he carries.

 

“Hey,” Tony’s hand goes straight to his shoulder as if he can squeeze out the blackness covering Tim’s heart in this moment. “It’s not your fault, man. You didn’t get us into anything,” Tim shakes his head and tries to back away from Tony’s ignorant and undeserving forgiveness, but Tony grabs hold of his arm, doesn’t let go. “You made the same choice we all make,” Tony insists. “To do the job.”

 

Tim’s violently shaking his head before Tony’s even done, “That’s not the ch—”

 

“McGee! DiNozzo!” Boss garners their immediate attention with his yell. Tim’s apparently pushed past his time limit for staying outdoors. Gibbs tilts his head towards the building and walks right in, expecting them to come as they’re called.

 

They do. Both agents scurry after their Boss. Gibbs eyes them pretty harshly as they enter the building behind him, but the admonishment is slight compared with their careless disregard for protocol in staying out in the open as they did—even if they are in the Yard. Boss lightly taps the backs of their heads as they pass him and move toward O’Leary who’s processing the agents coming in like he does every morning.

 

The normality of it all hits Tim in the gut so hard it’s almost like he’s been suckerpunched. When he was growing up, he didn’t even understand that a level of belonging like this could exist. As a boy, he understood that he belonged _to_ his father, in the same way his father owned his houses and cars. To belong _with_ other people is such a different experience. It’s so humbling to Tim to be a part of the fabric of his team’s lives as much as they are of his.

 

He knows Sarah’s never found her place with others in quite the same way he has. He fears it’s because of how absolutely she trusts Tim that she has so much difficulty trusting anyone else. There comes a point though, some brick wall that can’t be climbed or dug around, when trusting others becomes the only option available. That moment is more dangerous than anything else Tim and Sarah face—trusting the wrong people is what almost got them captured in Florida. On the other hand, trusting the right people—especially Marigold McGee—is what gives Sarah and Tim the opportunities to stop actively running, at least for a little while.

 

Secrets are exponentially harder to keep the more people who know about them, but wouldn’t Tim telling his team about who he and Sarah are be almost like re-telling himself at this point? Maybe showing Sarah how much he trusted his team would allow her to have as much faith in them as he does. Maybe it would be enough to let Sarah feel confident enough to go to his teammates if Tim were captured by their father or killed. The truth is, Tim doesn’t doubt for a second that he can trust his team, that they would protect Sarah to the best of their abilities. What concerns Tim is the people that his team might choose to trust, especially when they don’t even realize they’re placing their trust in someone. Normal people trust others all the time—a waiter with their food, a mechanic with their car, a new friend with their phone number—but all of these small acts of faith can be used against you. Even before Toli became Tim, he understood that the biggest things that could be used against you most often started with the tiniest acts of confidence.

 

As Tim and Boss and Tony enter the elevator together, Tim glances around at the three other agents that pile in the lift with them—John Michaelson, Chuck Fortney, and Evan Lorenzo. As the six agents exchange a mix of good mornings, Tim wonders which of them would be the weakest link in the face of his father. _Michaelson_ , Tim decides easily. John and Heidi just welcomed a new baby to their brood 8 months ago. They have four kids altogether, all of them under the age of 10, and all of them in daycare or public school. _Easy access_ , Tim tightens his jaw as the thought flitters across his mind. Tony’s known John longer than he’s even known Tim. They’re in the same basketball league at the Y. Tim’s pretty sure that Tony wouldn’t give a second thought to asking Michaelson for help in practically any professional situation and probably a whole bunch of personal ones, too.

 

Tim rubs his forehead, feeling his hand shake as he does. He squinches his eyes shut as tightly as he can, trying to block out the images his mind creates—John’s children beaten, the baby taken, Heidi’s throat slit because she spoke too loudly in her children’s defense. The thoughts almost feel like memories because of how closely aligned they are with events that Toli actually witnessed. Or, well he hadn’t witnessed the events themselves, rather, but the aftermath— _the bodies_.

 

Two years before he and mom ran, his father took them on a two-day cruise on Lake Michigan. At the time, it seemed like happenstance to Toli when they’d run across Uncle Vanya’s yacht. In retrospect, he realizes that his mother understood the demonstration right away. Mama had begged _Otyets_ to allow Toli to stay on their own vessel, but Father wouldn’t hear of it. They found Aunt Karina first, in the galley. At first, Toli thought the blood was ketchup, had even tried to guess how many containers must have been used in order to soak the entire dining set and spray every cabinet as well as to pool thickly on the floor. Toli knows he saw the children, too, but his mind won’t let him remember anymore. The only part of being on Uncle Vanya’s ship that he recalls after the kitchen was his mother’s voice in his ear telling him how strong he was, how his stomach was made of steel that trapped everything inside it and wouldn’t let it out, _no matter what_. His next memory had him throwing up in the safety of his own bathroom aboard his father’s yacht while his mother rubbed his back and told him how proud she was of him. Toli had never set foot on a ship again without feeling sick.

 

The elevator rolls to a stop and somehow, the motion is reminiscent of the waves on Lake Michigan. His stomach roils, but the voice he keeps alive in the back of his head tells him: _You will not yield. You were forged in fire. You are made of steel._ He locks his jaw, _You will not yield_.

 

“Hey, you doing alright there, McGee?” Toli recognizes Michaelson’s voice as he opens his eyes. The other agent stays on the lift when he should be steeping off onto the third floor with Lorenzo and Fortney. Lorenzo holds the elevator door open for Michaelson, peeking back in when he hears his partner’s concern.

 

Michaelson’s hair is almost as dark as Uncle Vanya’s was. Toli blinks as he keeps looking at John. _His skin isn’t nearly as pale, though_. Somehow that thought eases the crimp through his gut, letting Tim straighten and offer a half-smile, as if chagrinned,

 

“Grocery-store sushi,” Tim offers a little wince and shakes his head. “I don’t recommend it.”

 

John grimaces back, “Ooh, been there buddy,” Michaelson points at him, pulling down his thumb like a trigger when he snicks his lip against his teeth. “Feel better soon.”

 

Lorenzo offers his own wince of sympathy to Tim before walking away with Michaelson. The double doors of the lift close a moment later. Again the motion of the elevator tugs at Tim’s guts, but this time, the sensation’s more manageable. There’s not much time between the 3rd and 4th stories of the building, but it’s long enough for Tim to feel the uncomfortably weighted stare of his partner beside him.

 

Tim purses his lips, “What?” he demands, not ready for another argument with Tony, but feeling too itchy not to confront a new oddity from his best friend.

 

“Nothing,” Tony shakes his head, turning it so he’s facing the elevator doors. _Bing!_ the doors open slowly. “Just didn’t realize you knew how to lie.” Tony’s off like buckshot, zooming onto their floor and towards the MCRT cubicle before Tim even registers the potential complications to Tony’s observation.

 

Tim swallows, his gaze moving from the hallway where Tony left his line of sight seconds before to settle on the front of the elevator where Gibbs is keeping the lift in suspension by his foot in the path of the door. Immediately, Tim’s eyes drop, unable to hold Boss’ always penetrating stare. He exhales hard, almost shuddering as he waits for Boss to condemn him with an observation of his own.

 

Instead, Boss’ quietest tone beckons him to, “Come on.”

 

He walks past Boss but isn’t able to look him in the eye when he does. “Easy, Tim,” Boss keeps close, staying within a whisper’s distance. “I’ve known you could lie since the day I met your little sister.”

 

It’s only when Tim chuffs at the tease and looks back up to meet Gibbs’ stare that he realizes he just screwed up. Tim should have rolled his eyes at Tony’s comment, not let Gibbs see him take it to heart, because now Boss’ penetrating gaze is watching him as closely as it ever has. Tim blinks away, biting his lip. He’s not sure what he needs to do to get himself settled back into the backburner of Boss’ worries. Whatever he does, Tim knows he needs to do it fast, before Boss looks too deeply and sees too much.

 

Unless, of course…Boss would be the best person in the world to share their secret. Tim’s heart flutters in excitement just to let himself imagine it. If anyone could keep silent under duress and preserve the same level of caution that Tim and Sarah held, then of course that person would be Gibbs. Even more, Boss would be okay with sharing the risk with Tim and Sarah. Tim knows that Boss would even let himself be a target if it meant keeping Tim—and Sarah—safe. Moreover, Boss had proven time and again that he was practically impossible to kill. Even if _Otyets_ found him, found out he kept Toli’s secrets, Boss could survive.

 

The idea flowers in his mind like a meadow in spring, but then Tim blinks again. It wouldn’t just be Gibbs that Tim might be placing at risk if he chose to tell Boss about his father, though. Abby is the person Boss cares for the most, and she’s who Anton Markov would attack first if he were trying to hurt Gibbs. Not to mention what might happen to Ziva or Tony. As federal officers, their treatment under his father’s thumb would be even worse. His father’s people might even put Ziva through the same agony that his mother—

 

_No!_ Tim refuses to even imagine the consequences. _It can’t happen anyway if I don’t put them at risk_ , he promises himself—except—Tim can’t quite lie inside his own head. The fact is, his team’s been vulnerable from the second they were in his proximity, and that danger has only increased the more Tim grew to care about them. He’s not sure how to keep anyone safe anymore—not himself or Sarah or his team. One thing he does know is that the closer he gets to doing the right thing, the more he’s putting them all in danger.


End file.
